Breaking Through
by SheHatesWriting
Summary: Sometimes to break through to entire new level of our mentality, you have to figure out who you really are. They were a bunch of kids: a thief, a gay nerd, a dancer, a voiceless misanthrope, and a billionaire's son. They all had their secrets and scars, but not one of them really understood how much they needed each other. R&R and please be kind! :)
1. Amalgation

Matthew stood before a jewelry counter with his eyes firmly planted on the Rolex watch that sat like a silvery beacon on the glass countertop. The voices of the clerks were jamming the inside of his head, while the powerful cry of thoughts from the customers was constantly cutting into his own: _Will she say yes? What if he doesn't like this? Oh, my God, if a man ever bought me that, we would be married forever. Two-hundred dollars for a necklace?! Are you kidding me? _Matthew closed his eyes and tried to calm the aching hammering thoughts slamming into his cranium like nails against dry wall. It was as if each thought splintered his mind into thousands of pieces. He opened his eyes with a fierce resolve appearing in his bright brown irises and he stretched out his hand, the watch slid casually across the counter and into his fingers. He looked down at the watch, his vision going blurry from the sudden pressure on his head. He turned his head to the nearest clerk, she seemed busy with other customers, but that didn't matter to Matthew. He could have escaped with the queen's diamond and still gotten out of it unscathed, but that wasn't the point of his thievery—to get away. It was to escape from something else entirely.

The young boy turned sharply from the counter and ran out of the jeweler's, setting off a plethora of screeching alarms. He flipped his red hoody up so his face would be hidden to the mall cameras and charged down the hall. His heart raced as the thoughts of those around him dissipated, leaving him with only _his _adrenaline and _his _fear of being caught. He ran out of the mall and into the snowy parking lot outside, slipping over a chunk of ice and falling face-first. His tooth chipped and he felt his nose crack and blood spew from it. He grinned slowly to himself—this would be the best chase, yet. He dug his fingernails into the ice and attempted pulled his scrawny body up, struggling to right himself as mall security charged after him.

He realized with a sudden sickening thought, he couldn't get up. He fought to stand, but his ankle was twisted at a nauseating angle. He felt a hard tug on his shoulder as one of the mall security officers yanked him to his feet. "You've done real bad today, kid." He said with a sigh. He pushed Matthew's sleeves up to reveal the long and jagged scars across his arms; some were only recently scabbed, while others looked years old. The officer let out a little gasp at the sight of the kid's painful scars, swallowing loudly as if in shock. Yeah, take that in, asshole. Matthew thought to himself as he spat blood into the snow from his chipped tooth. Despite the serious wounds, the officer managed to handcuff Matthew, as if the boy could do anything about it.

Bleeding and feeling pretty pathetic, Matthew felt sadness from deep within himself rise up into his chest. A small tear slipped from his eye and rolled down his cheek where it hung on the edge of his jaw like a drop of dew. They thought he was a thief, a criminal, and now, a very manic-depressive fourteen-year old boy. He wasn't. If only they knew the truth. If only they could understand. He knew they never would because he could hear their thoughts. He could hear them, now—surrounding him, crushing him, and eventually, destroying him. He fell to his knees, falling into the wave of unconsciousness and into the newly-fallen snow.

* * *

Mia, be a ballerina. Mia, be the best ballerina. Mia, lose that belly fat, my God, ballerinas cannot have extra weight. Mia, your hair is to be in a bun every moment of this class, do you understand? Mia, why aren't you wearing the proper ballet slippers? Mia, dancers do not sit like that. Mia, ballerinas do not slack off. Mia, if you ever talk back to me, again. Mia, are you listening? Mia. Mia. MIA.

That was her life. A constant swirl of her mother's voice that shoved her to be the best dancer of the class, pressuring her to dance until her feet bled, and not allowing her to eat for two days, at times. Mia Hemming: the world-class ballerina. That's what her mother wanted her name to be, so that's what she was. A dancer and a world-class ballerina who was known as being one of youngest Olympians of all time And now, as she stood above the rooftop watching the city move beneath her at a million miles per hour, she couldn't understand why everyone was so wound up about everything and anything. The slowness of the world astounded her; it drove her to realize the utter beauty of imperfection. This was what the poets like Hemingway and Shakespeare had written about—the slowness of time escaped everything. It escaped the boundaries of society like magic.

She reached out to touch the sun wanting to feel the last stretches of its rays before she leaped for a final pirouette. Her fingers slowly turned lightly green as baby saplings of trees began to root themselves into the ground beside her. She felt bile bubble in her throat as her whole body began to turn green like a stem of a rose. She shook wildly. No. No. No. Don't do this, now, please. She pleaded to the curse, trying to keep her power at bay, while flowers began to spout from her skin and roses root themselves in her hair. She screamed and pulled at the green roping around her feet.

"Let me go! God, let me go!" She cried to herself as small, sappy tears escaped from her eyes. The dancer turned sharply to the edge of the building, her green form shimmering like a star in the night sky. Mia gritted her teeth and finally ripped away from the vines that held her to the ground, stepping to the edge of the building. She looked down and unsteadily slipped from the ledge. "Wait, n-no!" She reached out and tried to grip the side of a window, a brick, anything! But she couldn't get a hold of something to keep her from falling, until she felt herself snag on the edge of a building. She looked up shakily, scared of what it was and realized it was the vines that had tangled themselves around her feet. For once, she found herself silently praising her cursed powers or whatever the hell they were. She curled upwards and grabbed hold of the vine, crawling back to the edge of the towering building.

* * *

Dakota was sitting on the edge of his bathtub watching the sink with a fearful gaze. He swallowed hard as his stomach began to coil in anxiety, his palms began to grow sweaty, and he could feel the clenching tightness of his gut switch on. The sink burst on then, gushing water at an insane velocity as it began to flood the floor, the counter and everything in its path. "Dakota, are you ready?!" His father rapped sharply on the door. His voice was deep and snappy—a definite sign of his moodiness.

"Uh, yeah, Dad—just a sec!" He called to him, reaching out for the sink and jerked the tap close. He let out a sigh of reprieve and leaned against the counter for a moment, before coming out of his bathroom. He caught sight of himself in the mirror on his way downstairs and stole a glance. His dark hair was combed over precisely, but a few waves had managed to escape his gel. His bright blue eyes gleamed with a youthful glint, but obnoxiously bulged—as he would say. He was wearing the required navy-blazer and khaki pants of the uniform for St. Peter's, along with his tie impeccably tied straight and his shoes gleaming like new. He knew that a uniform was meant to hide all differences among his classmates, but why was it that in a uniform, he felt more different than anyone?

His father's Mercedes came to life as he started the car. He had promised that Mercedes to him when he turned sixteen, but that was still years away, with his fifteenth birthday right around the corner. With one final look at himself in the mirror, Dakota grabbed his book-bag and slipped it on his shoulders. Then he pushed the door open, walking out to the driveway where his father awaited. He got into the passenger seat and held onto his book-bag clutching it nervously and toying with the strings at the end of the zippers. He didn't want to look at his father or even try to make conversation with him. Lately, after everything that had happened, neither father nor son had spoken.

Finding the silence excruciating, Dakota pressed on the radio and heard Lady Gaga's Paparazzi come on. He wanted beyond anything to just stop and listen to his damn Gaga, but knowing his father, he would just look like an idiot. He flipped the station to some shoddy 80's, looking out the window as his father backed out of the gated entrance and out onto the road. The young boy looked up at the impressive architecture of his house, hearing his grandmother's voice in his head rambling about how a hundred-fifty years ago his great-great-grandfather built that house and how he made those pillars on the front porch with his own saw and how the mahogany tables were made from the trees he grew and how honored he should feel to be living in a piece of history. Well, to be completely honest, Dakota hated the house. It was old, creepy, and filled with a bunch of crucifixes that all portrayed the dying Jesus on the cross. At the thought of it now, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The very thought of religion really just made him nervous.

"Dakota, my boy," his father spoke, suddenly. His son swallowed and blinked hard, trying to swallow the lump that appeared at the back of his throat. "You don't have to be this-this abomination. This is a choice, son, not a genetic mutation." He said factually, but it stung Dakota deeply. He bit into his lip and turned away to look out the window once more.

"I know, Dad… I'm trying…" He whispered softly. He knew that if he spoke any louder, his father would notice he was on the verge of tears.

As his father pulled up to the dark and shadowy buildings of St. Peter's High School, he put the car into park, and grabbed his son's arm. "Well, try harder, okay? You're not gay, Dakota. I promise you that, my boy." Dakota felt the final knife plunge itself into his heart as the first tear slipped out of his eye. He knew what he was. He knew it was wrong. He knew he was a freak. He knew it all, but his father insisted on bringing it up…all _the_ time. He pulled out of father's grasp and grabbed his book-bag off of the floor. He felt like he was going to throw up, but he couldn't. Not here. Not at school. "Dakota!" His father called after him as he walked off. "Dakota, you know I mean it for your happiness!" He called to him.

Whatever. Dakota thought to himself. You don't care what your father thinks. You don't care what anyone thinks, remember? He reminded himself. But he was a terrible liar. He lied because it was the only thing that kept him going every day. He knew he didn't have any friends, a father who accepted him, or a mother who had wanted to keep him. He knew he wasn't worth anything to anyone… But there was that peculiar gift of his with the water. He could control it like an on-and-off switch. It made him feel alive and free of all ties … He knew he couldn't be alone in this: being a highly gay teenager with a gift for controlling water. He couldn't be alone in the universe, and that's what kept him going. He would find them someday—the people like him. With his hopes raised a bit, he entered the great archway and into the atrium of the school, but as he did, he could feel the last of his confidence drain out of him like water into the street.

* * *

_Achilles Worthington_. The scripted signature was elegant and smooth as it swam across the page like a wave over sand. Achilles stood back to admire his work, looking up at the judge with bright and intelligent eyes. A small smile was pulling at the sides of his lips as he shoved the paper towards the man. "You'll see, your honor, my brother is on due house-arrest, and will remain there for as long as you desire. However, by my proposition's words, I ask of you to please bear in mind my brother's…distasteful characteristics. He gets rather testy when he's confined in such a small space." _Yes, the 30,000 square foot estate he lives in is such a misery to bear. _He clicked his pen in and stuck it into his suit pocket offering his hand to the judge, who shook it with certain tentativeness before he finally dipped over his desk to sign the court order.

As soon as the judge was finished, Achilles snatched up the file and stuck it into his brief case, then snapped the locks closed on it. He said his parting words of etiquette to the judge before he walked out of the court office and into the waiting area where his impish brother was seated. Warren, of course, was drunk and, with trying conspicuity, attempting to light a blunt. His older brother face palmed and grabbed hold of the rolled-up marijuana and threw it into the trash. "What the hell are you doing, you pompous dipshit?" He snapped at him as he grabbed hold of his brother's shoulder and pushed him to his feet.

"Relax, dude, it was only a little bit." He said to his condescending brother, but Achilles was hearing none of it.

"A little bit? Really, Warren? I just spent the past two hours of my life, fighting for you to stay out of prison another day. They don't care if you're Warren Worthington's son—they will take you in, brother dear. Look, you want to spend Dad's money, play with the fancy toys he gives to you, and get drunk off your moronic ass, that's fine. But _do not _call me, begging for my help, when you're just going to throw it away as soon as you're off the hook. This isn't how real life works, Warren." Achilles angrily lectured him. He could feel his muscles tightening as his grip on Warren's shoulder grew stronger. His power gripped him and he could feel his rage dissolve into his bones, his muscles, and his very words.

"Jesus, Achilles, let go of me!" Warren screamed at him as they reached the parking lot. Achilles heard a crack of bone and turned sharply back to look at his younger brother. He quickly moved his hand off of his arm, knowing he had been inches away from crushing it. "War, I'm sorry…" Achilles quickly felt remorse flood over him as his eyes showed the clear guilt that glimmered in his Windex-blue eyes.

Warren only laughed at him in a bitter and sadic way. "You tell me to get my shit together, brother, when you can't even control your own strength." He slipped off his jacket and his bright and gleaming angel wings broke through his shirt, growing until they were at least five feet taller than he was. "You can dress up your mutation with your fancy Harvard Law suits, your big, old, and elaborate words—Oh! And let's not forget the degree that you got at twenty years old. But you know something, Achilles, you don't have to change your mutation because it's already changed you. You've become Dad's greatest accomplishment: a mutant-free son. Yeah, I'll hand it to you, bro, you fooled me for a few years, too… Until you didn't." His tone was suddenly dark and foreboding as he took a step closer. The air around the two brothers thickened with tension and the power that was felt between the two of them was intense.

"When Dad finds out what you really are, when he sees the monstrosity that you've become… He'll "cure" you, and you'll wish that you had been like me, and had just taken the chances Dad offered _me_, when _you_ had the opportunity." He flapped his wings once and levitated off the ground, looking heavenward as if he really was an angel being called home by some god of the skies. "Good luck with the whole "lawyer" thing, Achilles. Hope it works out." He spat at him as he rocketed off into the sky, twirling through the skyscrapers of New York.

Achilles sunk to a bench beside him and placed his head in his hands. He was still reliving his brother's conversation over-and-over in his head. His brother might have left, but his words still remained in the foggy and bleak air around him. It was true, what Warren had said. He was a mutant or an "atrocity" as their father called them. His strength could have lifted cars, bent iron, and even lifted a house, in an emergency situation, but he could hide it, like Warren had said. He had always been so adept to hiding it, and when Warren's wings began to grow-in when he was ten, it was perfect timing for Achilles. He was free of his father's suspicious glares and his endless questioning about why he was able to lift his bicycle with one hand or why he had been able to shove a car off his injured puppy. Warren had changed everything, even Achilles' attitude. When he saw the mistreatment done to his younger brother from their cold and calculating father, he set his sights on law school with one goal in mind: to bring down the Worthington Empire, brick by brick.

Yet when he graduated from high school at fourteen, he knew he would have to do better than bring down the lofty heights of his family's empire—he would have to destroy this idea his father had conceived about mutants. He believed they were sick and curable by a miracle drug. As far as Achilles knew, his father had spent Warren's entire life searching for something to cure his youngest son the "disease." Achilles would have to convince his father, his brother, and the rest of mankind that mutants were not atrocities of societal grace, but beautiful and unique beings. But he couldn't do this alone. A war was never one with simply one man, but an army of men. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through the contacts until he found the number he had been searching for. Pressing the call button and raising it to his ear, he waited until the familiar and warm voice of his old mentor picked up.

"Achilles, my dear boy?! What a wondrous pleasure to hear from you." His voice was kind and gentle, just as Achilles remembered.

"Professor Xavier, I know, it's been too long, but I've been working a lot of cases with Mr. McCoy up in the State's Office… How is everyone?" He really just wanted to ask the question nagging in the back of his head, but he owed the respect to Xavier to at least brief him on everything going on in his life.

"Mr. Worthington, as much as I appreciate the affection you share for my interests, I know you are really calling for another reason. In truth, I need your assistance if you desire for mine."

Achilles frowned deeply. What could the professor possibly want with him? "Anything, sir." He meant that, despite wanting Xavier's help. His old mentor had given him everything, when he thought he could achieve nothing.

"Your old friend—Miss. Guinevere Brayden—you remember her, don't you?" Gwen. How could he forget her?

"Yes, sir, I do. She was my… She was an old friend of mine." Oh, she had been much more than that. Someone much closer and intimate than a normal friend could have ever been.

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. Xavier was flipping through his mind. He could feel him watching the memories of Gwen. The summer nights where they would lay out in the fields behind the school and watch the stars, the secret drunken days on the rooftop of the botanical gardens, and the hours of time they had simply spent laughing and goofing off together. Achilles didn't want him to see some of it, even though it happened so many years ago… It still felt wrong his old professor was glancing through his mind. "I'm afraid she's missing, Achilles. Director Clancy contacted me only last week informing me she's absolutely disappeared without a trace."

His heart palpitated in his chest as he felt the world become so artificially fragile, one touch may have destroyed it. "What are you saying to me, Professor?" Achilles asked quietly, shutting his eyes.

"My dear boy, you know exactly what I'm saying. It's time for you to come home, Achilles. It's time for you to become part of the X-Men once more."


	2. Eat or Be Eaten

Matthew awoke slowly to the sound of monotonic beeping. He kept his eyes closed, figuring it was better to take note of his surroundings before exposing himself. He listened closer to the beeping and guessed it was probably a heart monitor displaying his pulse and vitals. He reminded himself to keep his heart slow to not show any signs of alertness. He felt his hands handcuffed to the bars of the bed he was lying on, which was definitely a sign he hadn't gotten away from his latest crime. He knew he must have been in a hospital room, but the weird thing was, it felt like there was no one around… The thoughts that were usually pounding against his skull from every angle were silent, except he could _feel _someone in the room with him. He literally felt the presence of someone—something—in the hospital room.

"Very good, Mr. Cunningham." A soft voice spoke as if not to scare him, but it was too late, Matthew's eyes shot open and he practically jumped a mile into the air.

He stood up on his bed, his arms painfully straining against the handcuffs, but he didn't care at this point. A random man, he had never met before, was sitting in the corner of the room in a high-tech wheel chair. Matthew judged him to be around his early sixties, but his face, worn with years of laugh lines and smiles, seemed much younger than that. His head was bald and his eyes appeared to be a sharply attuned grey, but they weren't cruel or malice, but soft and gentle. "Who the hell are you?" Matthew snapped at the man, still afraid to sit down on the bed.

The older man chuckled and raised his hands in surrender. "Excuse me, my boy, I've been quite rude, haven't I?" He smiled at Matthew with a reassuring gaze. "My name is Professor Charles Xavier; I'm a headmaster at a very prestigious school here in New York."

Matthew already didn't really like the sound of that. Why was this muckety-muck interested in a kid like him? "So? Why should I care?" He snapped a response. Until the guy proved he wasn't a cop, he wasn't going to trust him.

Xavier smiled lightly at the suspicion that heavily laced in the younger boy's voice. "I'm not a police officer, Matthew, I assure you of that. I'm exactly as I say, but you don't want to believe me. I suppose I don't blame you, how can you trust me when you can't get a proper read on my thoughts, hm?"

How did this guy know about that? Matthew's eyes widened and he didn't speak. He was now too peeved to say something smart. It was as if Xavier was the one reading _his _thoughts. That was new. It was almost refreshing, having someone in his mind for once, rather than the other way around. But still…who was this guy and what did he want with him?

"You're a bit of a thief, aren't you, Mr. Cunningham?" Xavier asked with a quiet and understanding gaze. Matthew didn't respond. Xavier already knew the answer to that—so what was the point of answering? "You don't steal to simply steal, yes? You steal to unleash a sheer and untamed river of adrenaline. It blocks the thoughts, doesn't it? The only thing that seems to do it these days, and, well, the pain…" He gestured to Matthew's wrapped wrists. The younger boy swallowed and looked down. He felt himself becoming increasingly ashamed by Xavier's observations, not because it was a lie, but because it was all so true…

"The pain keeps them at bay, sir." He said softly. His bright green eyes looked up to meet Xavier's. "It keeps them from suffocating the living shi-crap out of me." Matthew quickly corrected himself from saying the vulgar term. He would have sworn in front of anyone, but in front of the professor, it somehow just felt wrong.

Professor Xavier smiled sadly at Matthew. His expression wasn't pitiful or sympathetic, but merely saddened as if by something the younger telepath couldn't understand. "That's absolutely brilliant, Matthew."

Wait, what? Matthew looked up instantly to look at Xavier. "Brilliant?" He scoffed in incredulity. That was the first time anyone had ever told him thievery was "absolutely brilliant." Usually, people called it other words, rather obscene ones, if he was being honest.

"I'm not condoning the act of stealing, Mr. Cunningham—let's be very clear on that." The professor gave him a knowing look, but continued. "However, if you hadn't realized a way to stabilize the thoughts, it would have killed you, my boy. A man of your capability, I'm afraid, would be utterly destroyed by the very fabric of your gift." He said seriously, his sharp and focused eyes were watching Matthew's closely. "This is why, Matthew, I've come to offer you a home."

At the mention of "home," Matthew's flimsy trust he felt towards the professor, was instantly broken. He had never really had a _real _home, and the ones he'd had, were cold and unwelcoming. He narrowed his eyes at Xavier and opened his mouth to say something, but the professor beat him to it. "I'm a telepath like you, Matthew. That's why I can read your thoughts before you even speak them, but why can't you detect mine? Well, I've built up a wall of resistance against your mind, and if you come with me, to my school—Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters—I can teach you how to block them out, too… It'll be a home in every sense of the word, my boy… You'll belong somewhere, and that, I guarantee."

Matthew's jaw dropped at the mention of all this. Well, that explained…everything. But now, he was scared shitless. He had never belonged anywhere, how did this guy think he was going to fit in with a bunch of freaks? He yanked against the handcuffs, trying to escape the metal bounds. Xavier sighed and raised a hand, causing all sounds around the two of them to stop. Matthew found he was unable to escape from Xavier's powers and simply kept his eyes on him. "I don't mean to frighten you, Matthew, I will never mean to do as such. It's quite terrifying, though, isn't it? Knowing that there are others like you and me, who all have developed mutations. But I promise you, Matthew, if you come with me, you will learn more your gift than you could have ever dreamed of."

"How do I know I can trust you?" Matthew managed to choke out, even with Professor Xavier's powers.

"I think you already know you can, Matthew." The professor offered him a slight smile, his eyes gleaming with a mysterious, yet welcoming twinkle.

* * *

Mia finally got to the top of the roof and found she wasn't alone. A woman with long and billowing white hair stood before her. She was dressed in a grey dress and long leather black boots, but the most peculiar thing about her appearance was the shocking silvery grey eyes that seemed to pierce the sky like arrows from a hunter's bow. "Hello, Mia." Mia felt her vines shoot back into her hands quickly and her eyes widened in fear. How in God's name did she know her name?

She grabbed her dance bag and ran past her quickly, running down the stairs as fast as she could, and running out into the busy city walk. In the stress of the hectic day, it was almost a relief to blend into the crowds. She looked around her to make sure the white-haired woman hadn't followed her and quickly walked down the city street to her studio. Except, she realized half-way there, she was being followed. Mia turned her head slightly to gage how far away the woman was behind her, and realized she was only about fifty feet behind her. She broke into a run and sprinted down the street in her pink New Balance, avoiding people from the other direction as best she could, and eventually, she turned down an alleyway where a homeless man was digging in the garbage.

The dancer sighed in silent reprieve, leaning against the brick wall and feeling as if she lost the frightening woman. Mia closed her eyes, but reopened them quickly when she heard footsteps. She took a breath of courage and opened her palms to unleash the green vines that shot from her palms, forcing them to wrap around her pursuer's feet. The silver-haired woman's eyes widened in fear as a vine wrapped itself around her neck and began to strangle her.

"Mia, please…" She choked out, shaking her head with a pleading look on her face.

"Tell me who you are and I won't kill you." Mia said through gritted teeth.

"My n-name isss S-Storm, Mia…" She rasped out. "I'm like you… I-I'm a mutant." She said with a raspy voice.

Mutant? Is that what she was? Mia frowned deeply and released the woman, but didn't let her powers retract back into her palms just yet. The woman, Storm, managed to get to her feet and swallowed, coughing loudly into her elbow, before finally looking back into Mia's confused and suspicious eyes. "Do you know what that means, Mia?" She said softly, her voice was kind and warm. Mia felt instantly reassured by the woman, but she still didn't allow her to see her trust in her.

"Yeah, it's a curse." She said with a bitter voice. Her eyes suddenly watering as she blinked the tears away. She wouldn't cry in front of this total stranger, she wouldn't allow herself to do that.

"Oh, sweetheart, no… It's a gift. You have an incredible talent that is worth saving…" Mia found herself crumbling as a tear slipped down her cheek.

"How can you call it a gift, when all it's ever done is cause me pain?" She asked through a crackly voice.

Storm took a step towards her, holding her hands up in a way that said she didn't mean any harm. She slowly reached out and touched Mia's shoulder, squeezing it and offering a warm smile. "Because if you knew how much potential you had, Mia, you would understand why I say that… You're a wonderfully, talented young woman. From what I understand, you're quite a dancer, aren't you?" She asked with her electrifying silver eyes probing hers.

Mia sniffed and nodded while she held the other woman's gaze. "I was in the Olympics when I was twelve…" She smiled weakly, but sourly as if the mere subject made her feel sick to her stomach. It did. Dancing was not a joy to her, anymore, it was a job. "But that still doesn't account for the reason you're here." The dancer said softly, looking up at Storm.

"I'm here to offer you a chance to get away from this, Mia…" She pulled an envelope out of her coat and handed it to her. An emblem with a large 'X' was stamped across the front with the title: Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, typed across the top of the envelope. The younger girl frowned and opened the top of it, finding a brief and informative letter inside.

_Dear Miss. Hemming, _

_After months of observing and viewing your talents, the staff at Xavier's has finally come to the decision that you are a mutant. I'm quite certain you have questions and suspicions, and this is why we've taken the time to offer you a place here within the school. It's a wondrous learning experience and will allow you to grow to your total gifted potential. As headmaster and a fellow gifted individual, Miss. Hemming, I encourage you to partake in this experience, it is both rewarding and fulfilling. _

_As for your dancing, you needth not to worry. We have a recently-instilled studio built in the theater wing of the Xavier Estate. You will be well-practiced and taught your daily lessons, just as you would back home. You have a large choice to make, Miss. Hemming, but I assure you that if you find yourself alone, please know, you're never alone. _

_Sincerely, _

_Professor Charles Xavier _

The young girl raised her face from the pages of the letter and met Storm's steady irises. "Well, what do you think?"

They were all crazy. She wasn't going to just drop everything and go with Storm—a complete stranger who claimed she was like her. What about her career? What about her family? It's not like she didn't have a life she would be leaving. She scoffed at the letter and threw it onto the alley walkway. "You people are insane…" She had managed to recompose herself and walked past Storm, eager to get away from her. She wanted to just forget she had even met her. It was a mistake, believing for a single moment…that-that things might be different somewhere else.

"Mia, I know what it feels like." Storm called to her, but Mia kept walking, she wouldn't let her ears hear any more about mutations and Xavier's School or any of it. She was done.

"I overdosed." Storm said with a dry tone, one that seemed to be still not entirely over the experience. Mia stopped in her tracks and turned a little to face her. Her blood ran cold at the mention of the suicidal scare both women had seemed to face. "You're not the only one, honey, with a fear of being what you really are… You want to be normal, right? You want your parents to stop pressuring you into being something you aren't, because you want to please them… Oh, God, beyond anything you just want to make them happy, but you can't. You can't turn it off, you can't stop it…" She said softly.

Mia found herself, for the second time that day, in tears. She turned back to face Storm, her expression curling into a pained smile-like face. "I want to fit in…" She choked through the lump in her throat. Her tears welled up in her eyes like diamonds on a glass sill. "But they can't understand what it's like…to be fighting this-this _thing _inside of you…_every day_."

"I know, sweetheart." She opened her arms to her, embracing the young girl within hers. Mia found herself sobbing into the shoulder of her new-found friend, clinging to her because, for once, someone understood. "I know…"

* * *

Achilles stood in the grand lobby of Xavier's famed and beloved school. It was filled with all the familiar sounds of children playing and laughing, the toll of the clocks for class change, and the scent of warm and delicious food from the kitchen below them. He knew his old mentor's parents had been extremely wealthy, but as to how they had made their fortune, Achilles was still trying to learn of that.

"Achilles?" A laugh resonated from atop the stairs as the friendly face of Scott Somers came trotting down them. "God, man, it's been too long." He laughed and thumped his old student on the back. "How've you been? How's Warren?" He asked with a usual smile on his face. His glasses reflected Achilles' face so that he could seem himself through the red lenses. As he greeted his friend, he couldn't help but ponder the reflection in Scott's eyes. Achilles had been like Warren when Xavier first found him: lost, confused, and too smart for his own good. Scott had been much the same way, and that's why they became as close as they were. It was strange to think how different both boys had become since their first meeting ten years ago.

Secondly, how the hell was he supposed to answer that question? How had he been? "I'm uh… I'm okay? To keep things as uncomplicated as possible, I'm part lawyer, part babysitter for my senseless baby brother." He rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair in a stressed manner.

Scott's face seemed to grow softer and he reached out to squeeze his friend's shoulder. "Bring him up to the school one weekend, Muscles. If anyone can get his head on straight, it's the professor. Maybe, he just needs to see he's not alone in all of this."

The lawyer couldn't help but smile a little at the old kid name that his friends knew him by, but his smile quickly faded at the thought of bringing Warren up to Xavier's. It wasn't that he didn't want to; he would have loved the opportunity to show his brother around his old sanctuary. But Warren was resistant of anything to do with his mutation… His father's poisoned dream of curing Warren's gift had turned him into a walking-talking drone of what their father preached. He had tried everything he could think of to turn his brother's head around, but nothing had worked. It would take a miracle to wake his brother up from their father's methods.

"Yeah, maybe sometime soon… I uh… He doesn't exactly want to be-ˮ

"Achilles, my boy, you've finally arrived." The kind voice of his old teacher resounded behind him. Achilles turned sharply to face the wheel-chaired man he knew and loved so well. He broke into a wide smile and went to shake Xavier's hand, clasping it warmly and covering his professor's with both hands.

As Achilles took the old man's hand, he couldn't help but notice the age that had taken over his face in such a short amount of time. His great grey eyes were wrinkled from either laugh or worry lines, while purple circles shadowed beneath his eyelids like the setting sun's reflection over a vast ocean. His smile was still characteristically giving and welcoming, but there was a certain sadness to it. He knew exactly why. Gwen. It hadn't been simply Achilles who was missing her terribly. She had had a special place in Professor Xavier's heart, and her disappearance must have been just as painful on him. "I'm home, Professor, and that's all that matters." He said with a grave expression on his face. "Now, how do we go about finding Gwen?"

At the mention of Guinevere, both men in the room got soured expressions on their faces. "Come with me, Achilles." Xavier gave the miserable-faced Scott a small and reassuring smile, before he turned his wheelchair around and led his old student back into his office. He shut the door behind him and wheeled around to behind the fine mahogany desk, moving some papers out of the way. He gave a tired sigh before gesturing for Achilles to sit across from him.

"It's best not to mention Miss. Brayden around Scott and Jean, for now, at least." He said softly looking down at the desk for a moment, before bringing his eyes back up to look at Achilles. There was a plethora of emotions tumultuously swirling inside of his irises: hurt, sadness, regret…even anger.

"But she's not dead, Professor Xavier, she's just missing…" He swallowed around the lump in his throat. "She can't be dead." He said quietly with his voice breaking at the end.

A flash of Guinevere's face broke across his vision. It was an old memory when the two of them were only twelve; they were down by the pond of the grand estate. Gwen was running away from them in a game of tag, but as Achilles' hand scraped across hers she turned around to meet his gaze. Her face was bright and lovely, full of beauty and youth… Her laugh echoed through his mind like a broken bell as reality finally clicked back into place. He wasn't a child, anymore. He was the only person capable of finding her, and that's exactly what he intended to do.

"Where was her last transmission? Director Clancy I'm sure said something to you, by now." Achilles stood up and began to pace, his hand going to the back of his neck rubbing it as he thought.

Xavier nodded and typed something into the computer beside him, before turning the screen to face Achilles. He found himself frowning before bringing his eyes back up to the professor as he began to speak. "Nigeria, Africa. I know, extremely odd, but extremely normal given her mission. She was tracking a mutant under her agency's orders, but shortly after she sent this message—ˮ Xavier clicked on something beneath the map—"she went missing." A bright green box full of text popped up. He recognized Gwen's codename—Wordsmith—above the box with the following message: Found Mutant X. Heavily guarded. Operation Hellfire: Eat or be eaten.

With a sinking feeling of dread in his heart, Achilles sank back into his chair. Instinctively, his hand went to his hair as he ran it through it with a stressed sigh escaping his lips. "God, that doesn't give us anything. What was she even doing there?" He said bitterly. He closed his eyes and placed his head in his hands. There was nothing in that coding to give them a single clue of where she was or even if she was alive.

He could hear Professor Xavier sigh as well; the squeak of leather indicated he had leaned back into his chair. "That information was classified by Director Clancy, but her message allows us to infer she was searching for a mutant. A particular powerful one, at that."

Achilles raised his head with an aggravated expression gracing his features. He studied the message: Found Mutant X. Heavily guarded. Operation Hellfire: eat or be eaten. None of it seemed to stand out particularly, except the ending of the coded message—"eat or be eaten." He frowned and looked closer as he racked his brain as to why it had sounded so familiar. "Professor, what does "eat or be eaten," refer to?" He asked. His eyes were still fixated on the screen.

"It's an operative, very similar to a confirmative message. For instance, her mission was 'a go.' Though under Guinevere's circumstances, it was already known she was cleared to enter into the Nigerian Camp. Director Clancy was just as befuddled as we are, it would seem."

Achilles stared at the message and then, it clicked. Everything became perfectly clear as he suddenly realized exactly why she had sent that message. "She knew you would call me, Professor Xavier." He stood up and felt his hands begin to shake slightly as his heart began to quicken in anxiety. It all made sense, now. A distinct image came into his head—a memory. A summer's day. Children's laughter—Gwen's laughter. She was running from him her hair undone in long brunette locks that flew out behind her like a river. Her magnificent midnight blue eyes shimmered like thousands of stars in the night sky.

_"Worthy, come on!" She called to him in her crimped English accent. "You'll have to be quicker than a cheetah to tag me!" She giggled as she darted from his grasp once again. Achilles bit his lip as she eluded him yet again, but kept his face from revealing the giddiness that was bottled up within. He ran the opposite direction from Gwen, running towards the pond. If he was right, he would catch her at the precise moment when she would be coming around the corner of the grand estate. He leaped into a pile of brambles near the pond and waited until he heard the familiar footsteps of his friend's feet running past him. Achilles jumped out of the brush and tackled the little girl. _

_ The two fell into a laughing pile of pure happiness. It may have been the fifth game of tag that day, but neither of the two children felt tired in the least. Achilles rolled off from the top of her, pulling himself up into a squatting position, and sitting back on his calves. His youthful, yet handsome face was full of warmth and mischief. "You said I couldn't catch you, Gwenny, but I did." He said victoriously, with a bit of a daunting smile on his face. _

_ Gwen simply smiled at him with her electric eyes glimmering in the sunlight. "You never will, Worthy." She said with a sudden sadness that entered her ageless and wise eyes. Achilles was utterly confused, at that point. What did she mean he never would? He had just caught her. _

_ "Guinevere, I just caught you fair and square. You're it." He said as he crossed his arms. A stubborn expression touched his face as he met her depthless eyes. _

_ "No, you didn't, Worthy." She said softly. "You just tagged me." She spoke rather cryptically, as Achilles recalled. Her eyes had turned from light and mirthful to dark and sullen, which that in itself scared the little boy. His best friend was known to always be in a particular mood every day. She told him she didn't have "bad" moods, but strange ones—'contemplative'—as she called it. Whatever that meant. But the point still remained: why was Gwen so seemingly upset by their simple game of tag? _

_ "If you want to catch me, you'll have to move faster than you can even think." She said quietly, her eyes rising from their frozen spot on the ground to meet his. "You'll have to _eat or be eaten. _Because if you're not quick enough, Achilles, someone will catch you instead." She stood up and patted her younger friend on the head. Her fingertips resting in his hair for a moment, before she pulled away and left Achilles sitting on the path to ponder her echoing words. _

Eat or be eaten. It was a common phrase used by almost everyone, at some point in their life. But Gwen said it constantly to Achilles. It was a form of mockery, he had always thought: you'll never be smart enough to escape those who are smarter than you. But Achilles had proven her wrong. He had graduated Law School from Yale shortly before his twentieth birthday. Obviously, he was smart enough to think his way out of any problem, right? Then again, Guinevere wasn't telling him this out of derision to his intelligence, but out warning. Eat or be eaten. If Achilles was quick enough to think his way through Africa, which she must have figured he was, he could save her. He _would _save her.

"Achilles, my boy, are you alright?" He finally heard the Professor speak to him. Achilles blinked out of his thoughts and moved his eyes to Xavier's.

"Yes, Professor, and I know exactly how to find Gwen. I'm going to bring her home."


	3. Growing Pains

"Well, class, today we're going to learn about Alan Turing. Does anyone know who this man was?" Mr. Prescott flipped to a slide where a black-and-white picture of a square-faced man stared back at Dakota's class. Dakota only mildly listened to anything Mr. Prescott said, but on this particular question…he knew exactly what the answer was. He wanted to raise his hand, but knowing his classmates, he would only pay for it later. Instead, he stayed quiet and watched as several hands went up in the front row.

"He was a code breaker in World War II, wasn't he? For England?" Someone answered from the middle of the classroom.

"That's correct, Kyle. But you forgot one very important detail: Mr. Turing was a-ˮ

"A faggot, right?" Thomas Parker commented from the back of the classroom. The entire class went silent, all eyes turned to look at Dakota with unsheltered accusation. He felt his face turn bright red as anger and hurt hit his chest like bullets from a pistol. He closed his eyes and counted to five, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry. He would not cry. He would not cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. He thought he was going to be able to hold it together, but then, he heard the snicker. The first escape of laughter from one of his classmate's lips, and then it burst forth like rocks against a powerful waterfall. He was drowning in the hysterical laughter of twenty-five other children, all of them finding Thomas Parker's comment utterly hilarious. He felt hurt dig itself far past its normal limits and reach his heart where it began to poison it like a weed… No one cared about him, he realized.

As Mr. Prescott was calling the class back to order, correcting Thomas Parker that that was not _at all_ what he was going to say. It was dawning on Dakota like a slow and painful sunrise that no one had ever really given two shits about him. He was just the faggot who was like Alan Turing: a genius cryptographer who was ridiculed for his homosexuality. In the end, Turing took cyanide poisoning to make the pain go away. Dakota had written a report on the man when he was in seventh grade, and at one point, he had thought of Turing as an idol. But now, he knew why he had adored him so much. No one cared about him, either. No one loved him for who he was. They just loved his mind, until even that wasn't enough for the world because he was what he was: gay.

They all thought Dakota was so incapable. They all thought he was a pathetic "faggot." They all thought he would never succeed. They all thought he was a piece of shit. He had seen the clear insolence in their eyes. He had heard the condemnation in their voices. He had felt the knives of their whispered words, stabbing into his heart. He moved his eyes to look at Thomas Parker. He was the boy who had tormented him since the beginning. He had ripped him apart inside and out. Dakota was going to do the same to him. He would watch him suffer in front of all their classmates. He would watch him writhe like a bug beneath a magnifying glass.

Dakota felt his gut unclench and a sound resonated around the entire school that was analogous to the sound of a tree being ripped suddenly from the ground. It was deafening as if the very foundation was breaking. Then there was a loud _POP_! sound and all went silent for a moment, before a screech like nails against a chalk board began screaming into the classroom. The students grabbed their ears and cried out as if in pain, a few ran out of the room and others grabbed books to cover their heads like it was a tornado drill. But then there was water. It came flooding into classroom, covering everything and anything. Dakota's fellow classmates were screaming and grabbing their book bags, running out of the room to avoid getting their books and things wet. But it didn't matter, in moments; they would all be dead… So would Thomas Parker—the boy who had ruined him.

"Dakota." A voice said behind him. He momentarily lost his focus and the water immediately shut off as he turned sharply to see who had addressed him. A woman with long, fiery locks stood behind him. Her eyes were coal black and her face showed a merciless and dead soul rested beneath the lovely woman on the surface. "Killing them will only kill you." She said sharply. Her voice was dark and jaded like she wasn't even of this world… It was almost as if she wasn't even…alive. Dakota rose to his feet and felt fear begin to tighten in his chest.

"W-Who are you?" He asked. The panic was truly ensuing, now. This gift, this control he seemed to have over the water… It was dangerous. It had literally overtaken his mind and almost made him kill his fellow classmates. He began to breathe quickly, feeling a very powerful anxiety attack coming on. "I-I didn't mean to do it, I-ˮ

"He will come for you, Dakota. He always comes for those who are angry." She said and then she was gone. Dakota had blinked and she had disappeared like leaves in the wind. He ran to the place where she had stood and found a small piece of paper floating in the knee-deep water. He picked it up and saw it was an address:

**Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters**

**310 West Way **

**Westchester, New York**

Dakota frowned at it and flipped it over where a small bird was drawn, perched on a tree limb. _We all have to take a calculated risk, Dakota. _What the hell? Dakota's hands began to quiver and he dropped the paper back into the water, but scrambled to save it from sinking to the bottom. What had he done? His anxiety grabbed hold of his chest and he found himself unable to breathe as he fell back into the water, quivering and hyperventilating. His head was going fuzzy as he struggled to comprehend what he had just done. God, what was happening to him? He shut his eyes tight and began to murmur an Our Father under his breath. "Our Father, who art in heaven, hollow be thy name…" He whispered and rocked back and forth. His thoughts were going at a speed of a thousand miles per hour. What was he supposed to do now? Go to this place? Is that what the piece of paper had meant? We all have to take a calculated risk?

Well, obviously. Every day of his life was a calculated risk. Would he make it through the day without being shoved into a wall? Would he live to see tomorrow? Should he keep living or should he just end it there and then? He looked up at flashing projector which hung haphazardly off of the ceiling. Its light was flickering, but it still somehow revealed the picture of Alan Turing looking at him with a mysterious and intriguing smile on his lips. He was more than what the world thought he was. Dakota would show the world he was more than what they thought he was, too.

He stood up from the waters and breathed in a shaky breath and began walking down the road. It was going to be a long walk there, but he was going to make it there, one way or another.

* * *

Matthew stood at the gated tunnel of trees that led to Xavier's private and highly renowned school. He had gotten dropped off by the hospital's transportation service, but when he offered the driver ten bucks for the ride, the man declined. He said all of Matthew's medical expenses had been paid, along with the trip to the school. He had a hunch it had been Xavier's money. But as much as he appreciated the gesture, it made him very uncomfortable. Matthew had always had to rely on himself for everything in his life. If he wanted something, he would have to do it himself. He didn't have the luxury of parents or friends to ask things of… It was a lonely life he led, but he had always liked it that way.

He draped his half-empty duffel bag over his shoulder and moved down the path. It was about a half-mile walk to the great estate, but as soon as he saw it, he knew for certain that Xavier hadn't been lying. The house—or castle, more like!—was at least four stories high with long and spindly spires curling up into the heavens. He could see the French-framed windows were wide and revealing of grand and lavish rooms with expensive furnishings. The large house was branched into two wings, with what looked to be a stable about another half-mile down the cobble-stoned path. Xavier's house lay on about a land of about thirty acres, give or take with large oak and pine trees surrounding everything in a private and secure shroud. The house itself was made from golden brick and beautifully cared-for green lawns spun down like carpet across from it. Everything was like paradise, but Matthew wasn't an idiot. If he had learned anything from Xavier in the short three days that he had known him, he had learned that nothing about mutations was what it seemed.

As he came to the door, he raised his hand to knock, but then noticed there was a large golden knocker with a lion's head staring menacingly at him. Matthew grasped the lion, knocking onto the wood. He instantly could feel the pounding of thoughts cluttering his head, while the old scars that marred his wrists felt as if they were splitting open. He closed his eyes and focused on a vocal point in the back of his mind as he struggled to shut them off.

"You must be Matthew, right?" He heard a warm and soft voice and he opened his eyes to see a beautiful woman standing over him. She had fiery red hair that was tied up in a messy updo with bright and compassionate brown eyes. Her face was fine and pretty with a high chin and narrow eyebrows, as well as full lips that seemed to be blended the perfect shade of pink. He felt all the thoughts stop as his mind banged against hers as he was slamming himself against a wall. She must have been taught by Xavier to put up the telepath block as well.

Finally, after struggling to find his words, Matthew spoke to her. "Yeah, Matthew." He said unintelligibly. He cleared his throat and felt his cheeks go red with embarrassment. Smart, Matthew. Real freaking smart.

The woman laughed at him, but it wasn't mocking, it was kind and innocent. He would have compared it with that of a child's laugh, as if she had no ill-intent in her. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Matthew, I'm Jean—Jean Grey." She held out her hand and shook his with an assuring touch. Her brown eyes seemed to encompass all the kindness of the world as she smiled at him. "Why don't you come in? We have a room for you, and you can get settled. Dinner will be ready in about an hour." She gently led him inside the large estate.

Matthew had planned on going straight to his new room and locking the door, but as soon as he saw the inside of Xavier's home, his jaw dropped to the floor. The walls, covered in masterful paintings, stretched at least twenty feet into the air into triangular peaks. There was furniture adorning ever corner and room of the house, it seemed, with children bouncing everywhere. There was a kid with a plant growing out of his head, a girl with webbed feet, some girls walked by him all with seemingly diamond skin, and there was a boy perched on a crystal quartz chandelier with suction-cupped hands. He found himself laughing as the thoughts that came to his mind were not in a fury of anxiety and madness, but in soft and happy thoughts of children.

"This is incredible." Matthew said with total awe in his voice. He heard Jean chuckle beside him as a kindergartner with pink skin and hair like a mop, tottered over to her and hugged her legs tightly. She and Jean exchanged terms of endearment before she ran back to a class of other little kids that were going up a grand staircase. Matthew was completely in love with the place and he had only just arrived not but fifteen minutes ago.

"It's a very special place, Mr. Cunningham." She said with a small smile on her lips. She nodded to the staircase. "Come on, you're all the way up at the top, all the older children are staying up there." She led him up the five flights of steps until they reached the very top floor of the Xavier mansion. From the windows, fields of green and trees were visible for what looked like miles, until at least thirty miles or so in the northern direction, a large and faded peak of the Empire State Building rose up in the distance. Matthew had always thought that New York had no more rolling plains or grasslands than what Central Park offered, but he was wrong, apparently. The floor itself was furnished with darkly-rich wooden floors that gleamed like new and ornate Persian runners covered the long hallway like a catwalk. While a painting of a great blue bird sitting on a branch hung from the wall at the very end of the hallway. On each side of the hallway, there were doors that led to rooms, Matthew guessed, for his fellow mutants and classmates.

The Professor had been very strict about that: this was not only a place of sanctuary, but also a pedagogical institution—Matthew _would _receive a high school education whether he liked it or not. But in all honesty, Matthew wasn't opposed to school. But when he was on his own, forced to fight for everything he had, he had never had time for school. When he lived in foster care, he had attended elementary and had relished in learning new things. He especially took an interest in History and English, despite what most may have thought, he was a history buff.

"And this—ˮ Jean opened a door at the end of the hallway—"is where you'll be staying." There were two beds in the room with one accompanying each wall. There was a dresser and a closet, warm and clean sheets on both beds, and a—holy shit!—a _computer_?! Computers were extremely expensive and Matthew had really only gotten to use one once in his entire life. Along with the computer, there was a bookshelf filled with classic novels like _To Kill A Mockingbird, The Great Gatsby, The Grapes of Wrath, _and several others Matthew had managed to read back when he was younger. He walked into the bedroom and found there was also a small, yet clean bathroom off to the side. He found he had dropped his jaw yet again and went to quickly close it, so Jean wouldn't think he was a total idiot.

"This-This is mine?" He asked with an astounded tone in his voice as he walked into the room.

"Yes, Matthew, you're _home_, now." She said softly as she laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. He felt his mind lock on hers and he was able to glimpse a few flashes of memory: a long and beautiful white wedding dress, a handsome man with red-tinted glasses, and Professor Xavier. She pulled her hand away instantly and looked at him oddly, a small smile coming to her lips. "You'll do great things in your time here, Matthew, I just know it." Her brown eyes twinkled and she walked to the door. Jean paused at the door and turned a little so the side of her face was turned to him. "Get settled, the professor will want to speak to you after dinner." With her final remark, she left him there to get his few pieces of clothing packed.

Matthew turned to watch her go and then set his bag on the bed. This was crazy. He thought to himself as he threw some ratty t-shirts into the top drawer of his dresser. He had never lived in this nice a room, let alone a freaking mansion! He looked out the window that was above his pillow and found himself watching a girl down by the stables. She seemed to be speaking to the horses as they formed a circle around her. He watched in amazement as she began to make them turn in circles around her. It was almost like a circus trick, but then again, this whole place could have been a circus with all the different kinds of people who lived here.

With his clothes packed away, the young telepath pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his duffel bag. He shoved the bag under his bed and then sat down on the downy-soft mattress to study the piece of parchment that was now gripped in his hand. It was a speech from the Shakespeare play, _Macbeth_, and had been titled the Sound and the Fury:

_**There would have been a time for such a word.  
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,  
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day  
To the last syllable of recorded time,  
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools  
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!  
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player  
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage  
And then is heard no more: it is a tale  
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,  
Signifying nothing.**_

He had spent his life trying to discover what it had meant in reference to his life. Of course, he understood what it meant in the context of the play. The soliloquy was said by King Macbeth shortly after the death of his wife, and in his anguish, he goes into a great tirade as to how life is full of empty accomplishments, broken dreams, and is as short as the blink of an eye. But it didn't explain why his parents—if they were the ones who had left it for him—would leave him this slip of paper with a paragraph written in useless Shakespeare gibberish. He had wanted answers to what it meant, and not just the Shakespeare soliloquy, but all of it: his mutation, his parents, and why Xavier had found him in the first place. But until he found the answers he sought for, his eyes trailed to the girl below with the horses, he could at least try to fit in here.

* * *

Mia was sitting in one of the large and auspicious classrooms of the Xavier Mansion. Her eyes were still trailing up the walls to the paintings of great and historical figures—all of which Storm confirmed had been mutants. She anxiously fidgeted in her seat as she waited for the rest of her classmates. The bell had just rung to indicate the start of the school day, and Mia, with her suspicious mother always warning her to be fifteen minutes early rather than on time, was the only one present in the classroom. As she thought on her mother now, she felt a sense of relief flood into her. She couldn't believe it. For an entire year, she would be away from her mother's terrifying strictness and fits of anger.

Storm had briefed Mia that her mother had been told she was going to a very prestigious dance school for the next nine months. If Mia was being truthful, it was only a partial lie. She was going to continue her dancing and Xavier had already agreed to allow her to train with an old student of his, one whom he had the highest regard for in the art of ballet. Despite everything though, it still felt wrong. She had left her mother and father without a word of goodbye. She couldn't help but wonder if they worried for her, but then again, Professor Xavier had some extreme mind abilities. If he was the one who had wanted her here, in the first place, then perhaps he had had a hand in convincing her parents to allow her to stay. Whatever the reason was, she was grateful he had done it, even if she a bit nervous about leaving them behind.

The sound of the second bell rang and she heard the sound of students walking down the halls: laughter, talking, stupid animal noises that boys would make to one another, and the sound of lockers opening and closing. Mia prepared herself for what she about to encounter and sunk lower in her seat at the back of the classroom. She saw two boys walk in: one had gorgeous blue eyes and a cuddly golden-retriever face while the other had alert brown eyes that seemed to catch everything. He had a shirt on that said _Pyromaniacs: burning stuff up since before yo' mama was born. _Mia smirked at the shirt and looked down at her notebook, hiding behind her straight black hair.

Pyromaniac boy and his golden-retriever friend were followed by more students who either had visible mutations or mutations that must have only been beneath the surface like an alligator watching its prey from the very surface of the water. The last student to enter was a tall and skinny boy who looked to be about Mia's age. He was wearing a red hoodie and a pair of jeans that sunk below his hips like any old derelict. He had a pierced right ear with a golden loop hanging from the cartilage. He was knobby and paper-thin it seemed and had a plain face that was rather indistinguishable if placed in a crowd. However, Mia found herself watching him with a precocious gaze. He had heavy green eyes that looked as if they could see into the very soul of a man and a dark gaze that seemed to touch everything. She didn't want to meet his gaze, she realized as she darted her own eyes away from his. He looked to be one of those boys who ran with the "wrong crowd," as her mother would say.

"You must be Mia." She turned her head sharply to see where the voice had come from, but she didn't see anything. She frowned slightly, but then found her eyes widening as the air in front of her eyes began to quiver and then a face manifested from the waves. A young and curious face of a girl who was her age, she guessed, maybe a year younger, began to appear out of thin air. Mia stood straight up in alarm, causing several heads to turn in her direction as the class waited for the teacher. The face smiled at her and her whole body appeared in full form.

"Holy crap!" Mia said loudly and leaped onto her chair. She heard a few snickers of laughter break out from the class and the dancer, in utter embarrassment, covered her mouth. God, what was she doing? Her mother had always told her not to have sudden outbursts, even in times of crisis or emergency. She blushed a dark shade of red and averted her eyes from the girl who was laughing at her, now.

"Wow, I highly recommend you stop the dancing and join gymnastics or something, because, girl, you _way_ too jumpy for life." The younger girl laughed and offered her a hand down from the desk. "My names Rebecca, but, for the sake of stopping any further complications, just call me Becca." She said with a laugh and shook her hand vigorously before sitting beside her at the desk. Mia just stared at Becca as she began to converse with the two boys in front of them—Bobby and John—as she would later learn. Their conversation was too farfetched for Mia to even comprehend. Everything going on in this room was too much for her to comprehend.

What had she been thinking? Moving to an entirely new place, a place where she had no friends or family. This had been a mistake—all of it. She had been wrong to think she could fit in here. Xavier's School was full of too many crazy and new things that were impossible and terrifying for her to accept. Yeah, it was really great having other people understand what it was like to have a mutation or even to know that there were others like her… But in all reality, she just wasn't ready. She didn't have the luxury of pretending like she could live her life here in utter bliss. The Olympics was in two years and her mother had already developed a strict and cruel training memorandum for her to follow every day. She could hear her voice in her head, now: Mia! What the hell is that? A _pirouette_?! God, no, that is trash. Do it again.

Mia found herself watching the class around her as their voices grew louder. She felt her stomach begin to twist in a nervous knot, where was the teacher? She would at least have some comfort in the fact than an adult figure was here to make sure none of her new mutant classmates would stick a knife in her back when she wasn't looking. She still hadn't gotten over how Rebecca had managed to turn invisible and scare the living poop out of her. It was insane. Everything about this place was insane.

She got to her feet and began to gather her books. She wasn't going to stay here, if there wasn't going to be a point to it. But as soon as she was about to step out into the middle of the classroom, a tall and extremely handsome man walked into the room. He had red-tinted glasses that were strapped to his head. His dark hair was neatly combed through with high cheekbones, a piercing jawline, and beautiful lips to match his full hair. He sighed and set his briefcase on the table, turning to the class in a mild manner. Mia felt her stomach drop out and she sprinted back to her seat, while the entire classroom fell silent. It seemed that the man bore only three facets of a personality: mean, really mean, and horrifyingly mean.

"Where is the new student?" He asked looking around the classroom. Every head in the room turned to look at Mia, who barely raised her eyes to meet her teacher's. Her heart pounded in her chest like an untamed beast. God, what had she gotten herself into?

She cleared her throat and looked up at her teacher. "That's me, sir. I-I'm Mia Hemming." She peeped. The man walked down the aisle of the classroom with every eye poised on him. He came to a stop where Mia was seated and looked down at her. He seemed to be scrutinizing her every atom behind those red-tinted frames.

"What's your gift?" He asked bluntly. He still showed no sign of kindness or really any emotion. Mia swallowed and frowned slightly while she drew her gaze shyly up to look at him.

Mia was honestly sick of people calling it a gift. Storm had called it that, and yes, she trusted Storm, but this was different. This man was violating her on _so many_ levels. Did he have any idea who she was? She was Mia Hemming: world-class dancer and Olympic silver medalist. She did not have to tolerate this sort of scrutiny. She bit the inside of her cheek and boldly addressed him as she swallowed the last of her fear down her throat. "Sir, in all due respect, I really don't think I need to show you my so-called gift—if that's really what you want to call it. The class is Mutant History, after all, and I don't remember anything on the course curriculum saying I needed to display my "gift.""

The man broke into a smile then and the mean persona he seemed to be dangling in front of his face dissipated instantly. "My, my, my, aren't you a rare one?" He laughed and turned on his heel walking to the front of the class. "Miss. Hemming, you are correct on all accounts, this is Mutant History, and in this class you will be asked to not show off—ˮ he gave John, the boy with the pyromaniac shirt on, a pointed look, who then responded by shaking his head and giving an incredulous look—"your mutations, but to learn about those who came before you. But before we begin with today's lesson, you can either call me Scott or Mr. Summers, whichever you prefer." He smiled a bit before gesturing to the front of the room.

Mia found herself smiling a little bit at the mannerisms of Mr. Summers. He was a beloved teacher, obviously; by the way he goofed around with his students at the front of the classroom. He had been testing her, she realized. When he had come into the classroom so stony-faced and emotionless, he had wanted to see what kind of person she was. Had he found what he wanted? Had she passed? Mia was an extremely competitive person when it came to anything as it was, and now she just wanted to know if she had done the right thing.

Besides the point, what even was Mutant History? As if to answer her question, Mr. Summers began his lecture. "Now, children, which one of you can tell me about George Washington?" He asked as he took a pointer off his desk, tapping at one of the grand and golden-framed paintings on the wall. It had to be at least ten feet tall and an original portrait of the President himself.

"He was the sixteenth president! Oh, wait. Was that Bush or Lincoln?" A sexy mountain sitting in the third row spoke up. Mia would meet this boy later and discover his name was Peter Rasputin. The class broke out laughing and one of the boys sitting beside him slapped him on the back. Peter himself was laughing at his own joke, but Mr. Summers was simply standing at the front of the classroom shaking his head with a small and amused smile.

"Peter, you are absolutely brilliant, really. Your parents must be so proud. Yes, Mr. Rasputin is correct. Washington was obviously the sixteenth President, right? No, he was the first. He was also a mutant." The whole class finally stopped laughing at Peter's joke and leaned in with interest. Mia was also very intrigued. As she had learned at a very early age, Mr. Washington was the first President. But the idea of him being a mutant was a totally new concept.

"Oh, boy, did Mr. Summers just say something totally awesome? Yes, children, I did." He teased and flipped on the projector in the center of the room. "How many of you have been to the Capitol Building and have seen this painting on the dome of the rotunda?" Several hands went up around the room, but Mia, despite having seen it in person, didn't raise her hand. She didn't want to draw more attention to herself than she had already had on her.

"Well, children, it's absolutely fantastic if you have, but if you haven't, I highly recommend you do. It's a beautiful work of art, truly. Anyhow, what you are seeing: the rounded fresco with all the crazy hippy-like angel people dancing around in heaven is called _The Apotheosis of Washington_. It is done by the very renowned, Italian artist Constantino Brumidi in 1865. It depicts the Greek gods, as you can see, there is Athena, the goddess of wisdom, along with George Washington himself, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and Alexander Hamilton all signing the Declaration of Independence. The angels of the heavenly kingdom smiling down on the scenes that lay before them, as if God himself approved. On each side of the fresco we see more portrayals of historical scenes and more godly figures—the American Revolution on the right and the Greek god Poseidon sending his blessing over Washington and his men on the left. We see that these men, in this moment of time, were not simply normal men, but gods. They were taking the entire fate of a newborn nation into their hands and breathing life into it, Washington especially.

"But as many of you know, this is a Mutant History class, not an American one. So, many of you are probably asking to yourselves: Mr. Summers, why should we care about a stupid painting done almost two centuries ago? Excellent question, children. Take a pen and connect Poseidon, heaven, and Lady Liberty all together. What does that say, class?"

"It's an 'M,' sir, I guess for mutant. But that's kind of a stretch… I mean, any idiot could connect three points on any painting and it would make an 'M.' It could also be for the Free Masons, which Washington did belong to." A very smart-looking girl in the front of the class answered.

"That's correct, Mei, very good observation. But you forgot one key and integral part of this equation: the Masons _are _a mutant-based society because of Washington and all his founder buddies. You see?" The whole class was totally into Scott's lecture, now.

"BOOM! Mind. Blown." He threw some papers up in excitement and the class burst out laughing. Mia laughed with them, and felt some of her embarrassment subside. Mr. Summers was really cool, now that she was getting to learn from him. Maybe, and she wasn't promising anything here, she could learn to like the place. The grounds were beautiful, the teachers—or from what she had seen—were brilliant, and the students, she looked around at her fellow classmates, well, time would tell.


	4. Push Me and I'll Push Back

Guinevere Brayden had never feared death. No, death didn't scare her—it made her angry. Death was the ultimate escape from the labors of life, and it was a tantalizing tease to people like her, people who struggled everyday with those labors. In fact, she welcomed it. She wanted the black kiss of death to seductively lure her into its arms and cleanse her of all the pain… But no matter how beautiful death seemed, she knew she could never succumb to something as low as suicide. She did the next best thing: battled with it. She loved the thrill that came every time she danced with death, and her current mission had been enough for even Guinevere Brayden.

With her hands balanced in the dry and cracked earth of the African plain, she squatted deep into the golden grasses, and watched out from within her momentary hiding spot. The tribe of the Hunabi were milling around the small collection of grass huts, going about their daily tasks. Women were carrying large vases of water above their heads, while men were jogging into the clearing carrying carcasses of gazelles. Gwen nearly lost her stomach at the sheer sight of slaughtered meat. The glazed and dead eyes of the tiny creature made her heart backflip in empathy. She hated meat and she hated hunting. It was easy to tell why she was a vegetarian.

Despite the dead animal, Gwen didn't catch a glimpse of what she was searching for—Mutant X. Mutant X was a codename of sorts for the Omega-level mutant that her agency had been tracking for months. In a sweep of luck, Director Clancy had picked up an anonymous tip that the mutant had been kidnapped by the tribe's leaders due to his remarkable gifts. What those certain gifts were, the entire agency, including Gwen, was still a mystery. But the high-level frequencies the mutant had been giving off were off the charts of anything Gwen, Clancy, or even Xavier had ever seen. It was almost as if the child had taken his gifts to a new level of power—one so dangerously unrealistic that it could have disrupted all time and space as they knew it.

But none of that mattered at the moment; Gwen needed to find out where the tribal leaders were keeping the poor kid. She needed to save him and get the hell out of here. She slowly raised her head above the tall grasses and watched a few children leading some cattle through the fields towards the makeshift pastures on the north eastern plains. There were people everywhere. If she wanted to achieve a peaceful deal with the chief of the tribe, she would have to do it on their conditions…and therein laid her problem. The Hunabi peoples were notorious for their belligerent behavior and militaristic philosophies. She would need back up, which meant she needed to travel back to the agency's camp which was a day's journey over the mountains. She leaned back onto the grass and pressed her face into the palms of her hands.

Well, there was only one way she could do this. She pulled her hands from her face and lay on her stomach, stifling a grunt as she did so. She couldn't even let a single slip of noise escape from her throat. She began to army crawl through the mangled grass in such a way that she matched the grass' direction with the wind. She couldn't afford to be caught because she was crawling the wrong way. She bit her lip in pain for the entire way of the long trek across the plains. The air was hot and dry, while the African sun beat down on her forehead and arms like a magnifying glass on an ant. It seemed like the long stretch between her and the thick greenery in front of her was winding on forever. Nonetheless, Gwen knew she had to carry on for not only her own life, but for the sake of the kid's back under the Hunabi's control. If she couldn't save herself, the poor kid could easily be killed, too.

Finally, after what felt like hours of crawling, Guinevere pulled herself into the dense grove of trees in front of her. The air was still painfully dry and suffocating, but the shade was cool and nurturing in the hot sun. Her legs were bleeding from the rugged terrain ripping apart her skin, while the back of her arms were bruised and cut. In the battle between her and the dirt—the dirt had obviously won this war. She closed her eyes and leaned against a tree, trying to catch her breath. Her fingers reached for the canteen which was attached to her belt, but she discovered it had fallen off somewhere along her agonizing crawl. God, dammit! She cursed to herself as she shakily stood up, grasping the tree heavily for support. From experience, the agent knew she only had a few hours before dehydration would begin to set in. If that wasn't enough, Gwen's legs felt like rubber under her, and she knew it was only a matter of time before they gave out as well.

As she began to walk through the brush quietly, she heard a twig snap behind her. Her hands instantly went to the long, _katana _Japanese swords strapped to her back. A sleek and whimsical noise rang out in the darkened forest as she pulled them from the sheaths. Her eyes searched every inch around her for suspicious behavior, her ears ringing at the very sense that someone was nearby, and her heart began to pulse with renewed vigor and adrenaline. A small and sly smile swam across her lips as she flipped backwards, twirling into the air and landing gracefully in a pounced position right in front of her perpetrator. She didn't even bother to glance at his face as she mercilessly drove her feet into his chest, kicking into the central arteries of his heart, which despite not being a very fatal blow; felt as if one was having a mini-sized heart attack. She finally shoved her attacker into a tree, sliding the dual blades into an X around his throat, while her eyes finally slid up to his.

"There are a small number of people who can sneak up on me, darling, and you aren't one of them." She locked eyes on his and then, she _knew_. She knew instantly who the man was, and the swords dropped from her hands in less than a second. Achilles Worthington's bright and electric blue eyes swallowed her like a great fish as she found herself unable to escape his gaze. Her mouth dropped in utter shock at the mere sight of him. It had been four years. Four years and twenty-two days, actually. She probably knew the exact moment as well, but what with all processes in her brain stopping, she knew she couldn't very well figure that out at the current minute. Four hellish years she had spent avoiding him at all costs. Four years of failed relationships and broken hearts due to her lost ability for commitment. She swallowed and blinked in shock.

"Hi, Gwen." He spoke softly, breathlessly. Gwen closed her eyes and found her fury had surprisingly not left her. Her fists curled into balls and she flung a punch at his face, landing it square on his jaw, where a nasty crack ensued. Achilles may have been made of steel, but Gwen was made of fire and hatred. She could have punched him all day. After all, he had broken her heart; it was only fair she returned the favor…by breaking his face.

He reeled back from the force of her punch and his hand instantly went to his face, clutching the side of it in great pain. "What the hell, Guinevere?" He snapped at her as he looked back up at her with seething eyes.

"Oh, you don't remember how I found abed with a common harlot?" She snapped at him as she bent down to grab her swords. She slid them back into their sheaths and crossed her arms, looking at him accusingly. She was more than willing to throw another punch at him, and if he wasn't careful, she wouldn't be so gentle the next time. He sighed and tenderly reached up to his face and cracked his broken cheek bone back into place, his bones snapping together like Legos. It must have been nice to have immunity to broken bones.

"Guinevere, you never let me explain-ˮ He began, but only to be cut off by her.

"No, because I very well don't care, love. Now, pray tell, why in the name of bloody Dickens are you here? How did Xavier even get ahold of my location? Better yet, how did you find me, you back-stabbing arsehole?" She thundered at him with that same accusing look gracing her expression. Her green eyes seemed to simply know what exactly Achilles was thinking, even though she really had no idea. He looked well, in all reality. Too well. He was clean shaven with his thick and curly blond hair cut short, while his usual pin-striped suit was replaced by strapping combat gear. How authentic. She bitterly thought to herself. He did look handsome, though… Very handsome. But of course, that didn't matter now. She wasn't attracted to him. On the contrary, he abhorred her.

Achilles gave a long sigh and held up his hands in defense. "Will you let me answer your damn questions before you cut my head off?" He sharply shot back at her, before gesturing up at the sky. "Clancy gave Xavier your last transmission; he was worried when you didn't report back to him after a few weeks… We all were."

At this, Gwen let out of an aggravated sigh and threw a knife into the center of a tree nearby. She knew she shouldn't be so frustrated with Clancy's lack of faith in her, but when she had been on the field for five years it was obvious that she had learned a thing or two. After all, she was known for her impeccable skill set in dismembering arms from their sockets. Well, that wasn't something to be particularly proud of, but _anyway_… It still got to her that Clancy seemed to forget just how capable she was of taking care of herself. She hadn't answered after her final transmission because there hadn't been any new updates on her leads. She knew where Mutant X was being kept, but as to why and how he was being kept there, she had no closer an idea than the next idiot.

"Well, congratulations, you killed a tree. Now, you want to tell me what the hell is happening? Especially since you-ˮ He stopped in midsentence his eyes frozen on a certain spot right above Guinevere's head. "Hey, uh… Wordsmith, you may want to turn around…" He whispered to her with his eyes still super glued to the spot above her. Her heart instantly skipped as she realized that every muscle in Achilles' body was tightened. He was settling into attack mode just as Xavier had taught him to. This only meant one thing. When she turned around, it didn't mean she would be sizing up an enemy, it meant she would be jumping straight into combat. She didn't really mind that, of course. Dispatching a full-grown man was easy—it was what she was trained for—but it didn't take a rocket scientist to know that whatever was behind her, was a lot more than what she had asked for.

She locked eyes with Achilles and in that moment, everything slowed down, and suddenly, they weren't awkward exes anymore, they were partners, friends, X-Men. She reached for her swords and turned sharply around, pulling them out in a wicked spin as she slashed through the air at a terrifying speed. Her feet landed firmly in front of her and she narrowed her eyes on the tribal people who stood before them. They were Hunabi, but the particular markings on their arms were not that of a commoner but of the royal family. These large and hulking men were the chief's sons, sent to retrieve Guinevere… She knew they had to have known she was onto them.

"We mean no harm to your peoples." She spoke boldly in the Hunabi's particular dialect. The tribal leaders seemed utterly shocked by her knowledge of their language, but turned to one another as if to confer about what to do next. The oldest brother shouted a command and all of them raised long and spindly bows to face Gwen and Achilles. But Achilles only sighed heavily and slipped off his jacket, leaving only a black mesh t-shirt that revealed his massive biceps. He easily could have lifted two of her in each hand. Actually, when they were children, Gwen had seen Achilles lift a car off of a cat once, saving the little guy before he was hit. It had been incredible, but she knew what he was about to do now, well… She could assume it wouldn't end as happily for the tribal leaders as it had for the cat.

"Wordsmith, translate for me." He said plainly. His blue eyes were cold and emotionless as he took a step towards the Hunabi. Gwen swallowed uneasily and nodded, still holding her swords towards the tribal brothers. "Look, her and I work for the American government." He gestured to the shiny badge that was strapped to Gwen's belt. "We don't want to steal from you, but the child that you possess, the one you have under your control, is ours. We only want back what you took from our people." He said calmly and coolly. She could see Achilles forming from the idiotic arsehole she had fallen in love with into the collected and charismatic lawyer.

As she translated, the Hunabi people were seemingly _not_ disinterested in what he was saying. The oldest brother called to his fellow brethren to put down the long bows they had been aiming at them. "Mozzolla not for you. She our goddess." He hissed at Achilles. Gwen frowned instantly at the tribal leader's words. Mozzolla? The mutant was a girl? She hadn't known what gender the kid was, but she had simply assumed she had been a boy. And if they thought this so-called "Mozzolla" was their goddess—she guessed that wasn't her real name—then what could she possibly do that led them to believe that?

"Can we at least speak with her, my lord? We only want to talk to her." She spoke up before Achilles could. She needed to get into that village, and this was her way. The tribal leaders looked to one another and finally, the spokesman of the group met her eyes with a cautious nod towards the village.

"Father allows those who are worthy to see Mozzolla. We take you to see Father." He spoke crudely in English. Achilles' jaw dropped at their use of English, but Gwen was much more adept at hiding her shock. Although it was surprising they knew English, it really wasn't a surprise to Gwen. African dignitaries would understand the language of their allies…or enemies. They may had been years behind them in technology, but the Hunabi people were not stupid. She knew they had a plan just as much as she had one, but she intended to get to the girl whether by force or by peace. Mutant X belonged at Xavier's, not here in the middle of the bloody African desert.

Gwen pretended to consider it for a moment. She wanted them to be at least a little wary of her, wariness meant there was fear. Fear was her advantage. She finally raised her eyes and met the oldest brother's eyes. "We will meet with him."

* * *

As the bell rang to signal the end of class, Matthew got up and gathered his books the professor had lent him. Mr. Summers' lecture about Washington being a mutant had been perplexing, that was for sure. It was still hard for him to accept that there were so many others like him, especially great and famed men like George Washington. But then again, Professor Xavier had reminded him the night before when he first came to the mansion—"no one was ever what they seemed."

Thinking on it now, he had been hearing that a lot now. Could it be possible? All the stories? The myths about princesses, dragons, and kings? If there were people who had the ability, like Xavier, to freeze time and manipulate the mind—was it possible that everything else existed as well? Matthew had no way of knowing for certain about anything. After all, he had learned from firsthand just how powerful Xavier was. He had taught him how to block the thoughts out. The thoughts he had been trying to stop from pounding into his brain for years. But without them, it was eerily quiet in his mind, and for once, he could hear his own thoughts. He wanted to keep them out for good, but the professor insisted he would grow to miss them. Matthew highly doubted it.

"I don't want to be in their heads, as much as they don't want me in them." Matthew had told him the night before over dinner. Professor Xavier had sighed and leaned back into his seat. The grand office was beautifully crafted and furnished like everything else in the house, of course, but with the professor sitting in the center of it all—it almost seemed like he was the sun to an entire universe. The study seemed all the more fantastically exotic simply because Xavier was seated there. It was like he was the literal heart of the mansion, and in a way, as Matthew would learn, he was the heart of so much more than simply the mansion.

"Mr. Cunningham, you're looking at it in a negative light." His sharp grey eyes met Matthew's own. "It's not as if you are, say, opening a jar of cookies your mother has forbidden you to eat. As telepaths we're not deliberate in our ability to read the mind, it's simply that the thoughts come to us in a magnetic effect. Your mind, Matthew, attracts the thoughts of humans, that's why they forcefully bombard you. Now, you can narrow the thoughts that come to your mind, only allowing the thoughts you wish to hear, to come to you. It takes a certain amount of skill, but it's almost as if you are pressing against the magnet of your mind with another equal force, that way, the thoughts are blocked."

"How the hell am I supposed to do that?" Matthew pressed the professor. What Xavier was saying made sense, to some degree. But he was still terribly new to all of this "mutant stuff." How could he press outward on the thoughts to completely block them out?

"Have you ever been in a soundproof room, my boy?" Xavier asked him pensively.

"Yeah, it feels like you're inside a bubble… I mean, kind of."

At this, Xavier smiled slightly and tilted his head in an approving manner. He tapped his chin in thought for a moment, as if he was figuring out the best way to tell Matthew he was an idiot. "That's precisely how I would describe it." He chuckles at that. "Do you know why the room blocks the sound?" Matthew simply looked at him with a blank expression. Did Xavier think he just graduated from Harvard?

"Right, well." Xavier smiled a little at that. He took a book off of his desk and dropped it on the floor; a hollow noise came from the book hitting the wood. "Now, what I've just done is made a sound, haven't I? Now, sound, Matthew, is carried in waves and has the ability to travel faster than anything you can possibly think of besides perhaps light. But having said as such, you have to understand that these waves carry at frequencies depending on how high or low the sound is. For example, if a woman were to scream, that would most like be a high frequency, would it not?"

Matthew nodded, he was barely grasping onto what Xavier was saying, but he was hanging onto it. "Good. So, now, when sound intercepts a solid and soundproofed surface, the frequency is instantly stopped like placing a hand over a bell toll. Now, think of your mind as this soundproofed room. I'm going to send you a thought, and you, my boy, are going to block it. Understand?"

The younger telepath swallowed uneasily. Easier said than done, he thought to himself. He bit his lip out of nervousness, but nodded begrudgingly. Xavier met his eyes and without even blinking, Matthew could feel the tendrils of Xavier's mind within his. He fought against them, while he closed his eyes to focus better. He pictured his mind in a massive fortress surrounded by an epic castle with moats, walls, and even a fire-breathing dragon. He saw Xavier's mind like an invading army, trying to storm the front of his fortress. He felt himself being overpowered and then he felt Xavier's thought: _keep trying_. He sighed heavily and tried again for at least ten more tries. By the end his mind was swimming, his head pounding in protest, and his fortress had been destroyed by Xavier's army at least twenty times.

He reopened his eyes with a darkened gaze. His throat felt raw in frustration and his eyes were watering from effort. "I can't do it." He stared sourly into Xavier's expression. He felt a feeling of guilt and disappointment shower over him. He knew Xavier wouldn't want him to say that, but he knew he couldn't do what was asked of him, how could he?

But as he met Xavier's gaze, he found himself shocked to find the old professor didn't have a look of shattered disappointment on his face, but rather that of a patient expression. "Then you can't." He said simply, plainly. He wasn't mad, but there was obviously another huge lesson at hand here. Matthew wasn't really in the mood for another lecture. He hated authority, especially the cops, but Xavier hadn't really felt like an authoritative figure… He had really felt like a teacher in the short time that Matthew had known him. But now, the tone of the room had changed from eased to tight in less than a second. He didn't know what that meant.

"I'm sorry, Xavier, but I-I… I don't know how to."

"Then you don't know how to." He said once again in that stupid and infuriating patient tone.

Matthew felt the first pricks of anger picking at his side. His long and piano-playing fingers rolled into a fist and he felt himself clench the wood beneath the desk with white-knuckles. In an instant, he could feel Xavier trying to pry into his mind, and normally, the young boy wouldn't mind. As he had noted before, it was a refreshing experience to have someone else in his mind, but now, he was beginning to lose his temper. The last thing he wanted was freaking Xavier to be poking around in his mind, trying to find some memory from his past to make him fight back. He felt his mind reeling back from his as the walls of his impenetrable fortress slid up, with steel gates and soundproofed walls for good measure. He shoved Professor Xavier's mind out of his, refusing to let him see anything that was his.

He was gritting his teeth and he must have been making a noise that sounded like a dog's growl, because Xavier began laughing. He was laughing actually quite deeply, in an almost adolescent manner. He had never seen Xavier become so unpoised, on an ordinary basis, he probably would have laughed along with him, but he was still pretty mad and the fact that Xavier was laughing at his pathetic attempts to deflect him was definitely not helping his anger. "Hey, why don't you shut up? I did the best I freaking could, okay?" He snapped at him dangerously.

Xavier finally managed to gather himself. "Matthew, I'm not laughing at you." He smiled at him knowingly. "Did you even take note of the fact that it's been three and a half minutes since I've sent you a thought?"

"Because I suck at blocking them." He said with his teeth mashed together like he was biting into something.

"Matthew, you're blocking me as we speak." He raised an eyebrow with a wry smile twirling across his lips.

At this, Matthew's jaw dropped and he realized with great joy, Xavier was right. His mind was holding like the padlocked fort he had set up around his thoughts. He couldn't help but feel a small, but anxious smile come across his lips. "It's that easy, huh?" He asked a little cautiously.

"No, Mr. Cunningham, on the contrary, blocking thoughts out is one of the most challenging aspects of control. But you can't leave them out forever, my boy, you will soon see that your mind craves the thoughts of others. It's in your DNA, a need to see other's minds, you see. Meet with me next week, and we'll work on focus."

After that, the professor had given him his school schedule and sent him back to his dorm for the night. But Matthew hadn't even glanced at it, as he was still flabbergasted by his own ability to control his own mind. He had learned to block the thoughts out…and he had done it by his own accord. The professor had helped him, but he didn't go into his mind and block his own thoughts out. No, Matthew had done that all on his own. He felt himself smiling as he lay in his bed that night. He had controlled his ability, and to him, control was all he ever sought. His whole life he had been trying to control his gift by thievery, petty crimes, and self-pain… But Xavier hadn't made him steal a car or take a knife to his wrist; he had allowed him beautiful and glorious control simply by letting Matthew figure it out on his own.

That had been his first night at Xavier's beloved school, and so far it hadn't been that bad. He even kind of liked it. It was really crazy to think that he was only part of a bigger universe, full of strange and wonderful people. And just this morning he had learned he wasn't alone among the telepaths—Washington had been one, too. Mr. Summers' class had been interesting, especially the in-depth discussion about President Washington's English heritage which led to even more powerful mutants than the man himself.

As Matthew walked down the hall with his new black, messenger bag strapped across his shoulder, he noticed a group of kids from his history class lounging in the living room. He recognized Bobby Blake, John Allerdyce, Becca Mason, and Peter Rasputin with the exception of a few others almost immediately. Bobby and he had met briefly the night before, shortly before bed check. He was kind, obviously very warm and caring, despite his icy mutation. Matthew swallowed uneasily and gathered his courage. If he was going to live here for the next four years, he should probably try to at least make friends. But that was the thing about Matthew…he didn't have any friends, and therein lied the reason he failed to make some.

He walked over to the kids and found he had just entered at a very odd part of the conversation. "No, I'm telling you! Chicks dig guys who have a rockin' body, with a little bit of fire." John said with a smirk as he flipped open his hands to expose the lighters taped there. Almost immediately a flame shot from each one and nearly burned off of one of Becca's eyebrows.

"Yeah, that's why you have _so many_ girlfriends, John." She chided as she gave him a look. "Not."

"Girl, you don't know me." His lips slid into a trademark slick and very smooth smile.

Becca and Bobby burst out laughing at that remark. "Unfortunately, honey, I do." She rolled her eyes and moved them to look up at Matthew. Her smile slightly faltered when it came to her lips. She cleared her throat in an almost nervous matter and elbowed Bobby, who she was sitting beside. Matthew felt his skin prickle at the looks they all exchanged in front of him. For a moment, he felt he was back in the foster home where whatever he did, no matter how great, it would have been wrong.

"Matthew, dude! What's up, man? Take a seat." Bobby said with a kind smile. His bright blue eyes sparkled in the light of sun, reflecting his obvious kindness and jovial attitude.

The telepath felt some of his fear subside as he slid next to John, trying to act nonchalant. He wracked his brain trying to think of something to say, but he felt as if anything he said would come out wrong. "I uh… Thanks for letting me sit here with you guys. I'm still new to the whole 'mutant' thing, ya' know? I'm tryin' to figure out how it all works."

This must have made everyone feel a little bit better. Peter glanced up from his notebook—he seemed to be sketching a bird or something—and offered Matthew a shy smile. "We're all new to it, Cunningham. You think if we were all masters of our crafts, we'd be here?" He asked with a bit of a Russian accent. Bobby nodded in agreement with Peter. "He's right, dude. You can sit with us anytime, man. We're all friends in this house."

Becca coughed under her breath and looked up at Bobby from under her ridiculously long lashes. "You know that's not tr-ˮ John gave her a look to shut her up, but it was still clear—not everyone who came to Xavier's wasn't as friendly as Bobby and the rest of his crew were. That in itself wasn't entirely reassuring.

"Dude, Bobby. Look, it's the new girl." John smirked and elbowed his friend in the ribs. Bobby rolled his eyes at John, but nonetheless couldn't seem to resist looking at the so-called new girl. Matthew moved his eyes to look at the approaching girl from his history class that morning. She had thick black hair that had obviously been plucked and prepped for hours that morning due to its vibrant appearance. Her face was soft and angular with almond-shaped eyes, soft brown irises, and characteristically softly-shaped lips. It was easy to tell she had oriental blood that ran through her, but it was obvious that the girl wasn't a native of China, either. She didn't have that crazy smart look, despite her sharp and alert eyes. Mia Hemming. That was her name. He found himself smiling a bit at the memory of her snappy attitude towards Mr. Summers that morning.

But it wasn't simply the girl's obvious beauty that seemed to set her apart from everyone else, it was a grace and fluent like movement of her body. She held herself with such a snobby and self-righteous demeanor, that it almost seemed to bleed into the way she walked. It was as if she was a swan guiding across still water, landing beautifully through it with each footfall. She was incredibly balanced and her hips seemed to move when she walked, but despite her ostentatious gait, she looked rather shy and modest. Matthew knew the type of girl she was: pretty, bossy, bitchy, self-proclaimed, and a little clueless. He hated her type, but yet, there was a part of him that just didn't want to look away. It was almost as if she had a hypnotic ability over him like evil snake Kaa in _The Jungle Book_.

John smirked a little at her and threw a paper airplane over at her he had been toying with. If Mia would have been one step farther than where she was, the paper aircraft would have just missed her nose. But instead, it hit her right in the eye. She gave a dramatic cry and grabbed her eye, while her face went entirely red. For a moment, the entire group went silent but then John turned sharply to Matthew.

"Dude, what the heck? The girl's just trying to get to her class."

Matthew was appalled, and frankly, despite having known John for a little less than ten minutes, he felt betrayed. The last thing he wanted was for this girl to hate him. If looks could kill, John would have been a dead man. Mia sniffed and opened her injured eye, it was bloodshot and watery. Anyone could have known it probably hurt a lot deeper than just her eye. The poor girl looked like she was about to cry… She turned sharply to look at Matthew and John who was standing just an inch or so away from him.

"Oh, my God, that is it!" She snapped and charged over to Matthew. Her voice was shrill and high when she was upset. "I'm so tired of this place and I have only been here for a freaking day! Apologize to me, right now." She was looking directly at Matthew. Her bloodshot eye was twitching slightly from stress, and Matthew felt guilty for the poor girl. But he couldn't apologize, not when it wasn't his fault. He wouldn't do that for God himself.

"Honey, you've got the wrong kid." He said tersely, crossing his arms. "I don't hit girls…or throw paper airplanes at them." His dark green eyes boldly meeting hers.

Mia bit her lip as it started to quiver. "Please…" She seemed to be crumbling on the inside. He could see it through her expensive makeup that the girl was broken and grasping for something familiar. He felt himself exhale and he rolled his eyes. He would do it for his own conscience, not for John or even for the poor girl herself. At least, that's what he was telling himself.

"I-I'm sorry. I was aiming for that—ˮ he looked over to where she had been standing—"…wall over there." He cleared his throat and gave John one last dirty glare before he grabbed his bag and shoved past Mia to the hallway.


	5. We are Meant to be Gods

Mia watched the boy—Matthew Cunningham—go with a slight sense of guilt enfold in her gut. As to why, she was clueless. He was a total scumbag, right? He had _dared _to throw a paper airplane at her face—_her _face. He had owed her an apology. But something within her told her Matthew hadn't been totally truthful with her. Yes, he seemed like a douche bag, but there was something within his deep-set green eyes that told her otherwise.

"Hey, honey, you okay?" She turned to look at John Allerdyce, the boy who was wearing the pyromaniac t-shirt. She felt a clench of irritation in her stomach at him calling her "honey." She really hated nicknames, especially from boys she didn't know. She swallowed uneasily—all of John's friends were eyeing her. She wasn't about to look like a fool in front of anyone, again. She offered him her best smile, trying her hardest not to show the wall of nerves that was building within her chest.

"I'll live, I suppose." She said softly. "Who was he, anyway?"

"He's a newbie, just like you. Cunningham is his name." Newbie? Holy crap. That's what they were calling her behind her back. A _newbie_?! Her heart skipped a beat and she nearly fell over. Her entire reputation was hanging in the balance with how she responded. No pressure, Mia, no pressure.

But on the other hand, Mia felt another stab of guilt. Matthew was new, just like her. Maybe, he had just been trying to make friends…Or seem cool to the other teenage mutants. Nonetheless, she forced an eased smile, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. Her eye was still burning from the paper that had hit it earlier, but it was slowly starting to fade. "Is it really that obvious? I mean—that I'm new?"

She looked over all of them, but she noticed that the rest of the group seemed silent. Bobby Blake was staring almost as icily as his mutation's power at John, while Becca Mason was throwing dirty glances at Bobby. Peter Rasputin just watched after the direction Matthew had gone with a bit of a troubled expression on his face. The only one who seemed to be okay with the obvious tension of the friend group was John, who was smiling charmingly at Mia.

"Sunshine, you're so green it's literal." He smirked a bit and gestured towards her. Mia's blood went cold as her worst fears came to life. She slowly glanced down and she noticed her entire body had shifted to a green, plant-like shade. And it wasn't only the color, her skin felt like the delicate flesh of a stem, while her hair began to layer itself with petals. She closed her eyes and felt a deep green flush break across her cheeks. This was shaping to be one of the worst days ever.

"I do that sometimes." She squeaked out before reopening her eyes to meet her classmates' gazes. She guessed they would all be highly disgusted, but Bobby simply offered her a small smile. Becca's jaw dropped and she broke into an awe-filled grin.

"OhmyGod, Mia, that is too cool."

She looked at all of them with utter shock across her face. No, this was not cool. Her winning the gold in The Olympics for ballet when she was only twelve years old was cool. She was a freaking plant. "Excuse me, _what_?" She snapped at them. Her prickling sense of irritation rose quickly. Long and elegant tendrils of ivy spun out from her hands and wrapped themselves around furniture and her feet. "You honestly think this is _cool_?" She gestured to herself and to them. "I am a dancer, a normal high school freshman, and I definitely do not deserve _this_." She yelled, her voice growing into the next octave.

All of them looked appalled at her words, even John. She realized quite quickly was she had said and began to shake. How could she have said that? Becca was trying to be friendly, and John, as annoying as he was being, was at least being welcoming. How did she always manage to screw up everything?

A flash of memory forced itself to the front of her mind. She had been going into the ninth hour of a practice—a practice that was only supposed to last two hours. The other girls in the class had been dismissed hours ago, but Mia's mother forced her to keep practicing until the stars were beginning to rise high into the sky. She wouldn't let her stop until she perfected a particular dance sequence for a recital that was at least a month away.

"_Oh, stop acting like you're tired." She had called to her from her platform in the back of the studio. "You are weak—dance!" Mia had continued for another hour. But into hour ten, she felt her feet collapse from under her and she fell to the floor, clenching her teeth and barely holding the tears from falling from her eyes. Her once pink and pastel colored ballet slippers were drenched in bloody crimson from her crushed and bleeding toes. _

"_Mother, please…" She had begged her. She wanted nothing more than to take off her slippers and soak in a nice long ice bath, but her mother was simply staring at her with an expression of both wild rage and underlying madness. _

_Mia knew what was coming. Her mother's eye twitched and she rose to her feet sharply as she walked over to Mia with a cold and collected expression on her face. "Mia, why do we practice? Hmmm? Is it so that we can be good at dancing? Better? Maybe win a few dance competitions now and then?" _

_She felt like crying, but she knew that would only make it worse. If she cried, her mother would throw a vase at her head. Crying showed weakness and weakness proved fatal in the world of ballet. "I don't know, Mother… I just want to change my shoes." _

_Her mother smiled a little, almost sympathetically. Mia closed her eyes and looked away; she couldn't bear what would come next. "Mia, we practice so that we can be _perfect_. Perfection is what you will be. But right now—" her voice turned sharp like nails across glass—"it seems to me that you will _NEVER BE PERFECT!_" She screamed at her and slapped her across the face, yanking her jaw up so that she was forced to look up into her eyes. _

"_Mom, I-" _

"_No, darling, no… You will never be anything, do you understand me? Because you are _nothing."

Her mother was right: she would never be anything because she wasn't _anything_. Her skin quickly returned to its normal pigment, while the vines tumbled back into her hands. "I-I'm so sorry… I… I didn't mean that. God, I'm so sorry…" She said very quickly and ran off down the hall.

* * *

In all honesty, Achilles probably should have seen the chief's plan to kill them all.

It started out well. Gwen and Achilles were led through the busy village. People gawked at them as they passed, while others darted into their grass-woven homes to peek from their windows. It was obvious that Achilles and Guinevere weren't welcome, even if the chief was agreeing to meet with them. Plus, there was also the fact that several large men surrounded them with poisoned darts. He didn't especially like that.

As they came to the chief's home, and also the largest clay house in the village, Achilles took note of the buildings' structural makeup. If he needed to bring the house down—yes_, literally_ bring the house down—he needed to know exactly where his strength would be needed the most. He also noticed that the inside of the clay house was decorated with tribal art on the walls and rugs that were obviously handmade by the women of the village, or perhaps one of the chief's wives. But for the most part, it was a simple building with sturdy support. He assumed there wouldn't be any hidden trapped doors where rabid dogs would be waiting to kill them.

The chief himself was an extremely intimidating man, and coming from Achilles, who could lift a semi-truck, that was definitely saying something. He was tall, at least six feet something with broad shoulders that were extremely muscular. His face was wide and had strong features, with dark and intelligent eyes locked into a permanent expression of suspicion and eternal grumpiness. Gwen immediately sank to the floor in a kneeled stance with Achilles following suit. He really had no idea how to speak to an African nobleman, but he assumed Guinevere would.

"You may rise." He said in a gravelly tone like he had smoked for most of his life.

Achilles did as he asked, but when he rose, he realized the guards of the throne room had taken a common two-by-two procedure. There were two guards at each side of the chief, while two others remained behind him. They were all staring directly at Achilles, and he knew why. But they should have been more afraid of girl beside him. She was the one with the terrifying mutation, not him.

"My lord Eskali," Gwen began. "The goddess, Mozolla, you have kept her in your possession for some time, now. I do not wish to make ill on our peace, but I wish to speak with the girl… So that I may experience her glorious purpose."

Chief Eskali thought for a long moment. His eyes traced over to Achilles as if sizing him up. Yeah, big guy, you do that. Achilles thought to himself, but secretly, he knew that even with his extreme strength, he couldn't take down an entire village... "I will allow you, girl of America, to see to the goddess, but the ogre stays."

Achilles glanced around for a moment. Ogre? Wait. He was referring to _him_. He snapped around to turn and look at him with a cold glare across his face, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Gwen was trying to fight a smile. Figures. He sighed, but gave a slight bow of his head. "As you wish, my lord." He turned to Gwen trying to catch her eye, but she was already being led out of the throne room by two guards.

With a heavy sigh, Achilles turned back to the chief. He could be waiting a while. Gwen liked to talk when she had the chance. But he was curious, what was all the hype with the mutant Gwen was searching for? He understood she was powerful, but to what degree? He turned a little to look at Chief Eskali. "Pardon me, my lord, but if I may ask, why is there such a demand for the goddess?"

"Mozolla is the goddess of healing." He said tersely, as if he didn't really feel the need to say more than that.

"What do you mean, healing?"

Chief Eskali turned to look at him tiredly. "The ancient illness, the one that has plagued the people of our world for centuries-the goddess has the power to cure it. She has come from the heavens to save all of mankind, and we intend for her to save us first… By bathing in her blood."

The ancient illness? Achilles went silent for a whole five count, but then blinked and looked back up at the chief. "Bathing in her blood?!" Achilles' jaw dropped. God, he had to tell Gwen.

"Yes, Ogre, we have to bathe in the girls' blood to evolve—to be cured of the mortality that plagues us. The Hunabi are immortal people, we are born mortal, but destined for greatness." His dark eyes were flaming with an impassioned fervor. This guy was serious, Achilles realized. He needed to get out of here, but he couldn't leave without Gwen and the kid. He wasn't about to let these guys hurt an innocent child, let alone _bathe in her freaking blood_.

Right, then. He would need to think of a solution, and fast. He offered the chief a smile and nodded. "Well, that sounds great… I really hope that works out for you guys. Uhh… Do you mind if I wait outside for my friend? Thanks." He didn't stick around to see if the chief would object, but when he got outside and noticed that he wasn't being followed, he took it as a sign he was in the clear.

He was about to go after Gwen, maybe steal a cow just to spite Chief Eskali, but he didn't have to. He heard a high shriek and then he saw her, a flash of brunette locks streaked with auburn. She was racing towards him. "ACHILLES, NOW!" She screamed at him. "YOU HAVE TO GO MUSCLE-MODE, NOW!" He blinked and noticed that behind her she was trailing a tiny blue girl. No, she was seriously blue. He didn't have time to study her for long because as soon as he turned back around, the chief's men were surrounding him.

God, he really hated doing this. "Sorry, guys." He murmured and then lunged into the crowd of Hunabi warriors, easily throwing six across the village square into one of the grass huts that surrounded the small circular community space. What followed after that was pure chaos. Children were screaming and running for their mothers, while men grabbed up weapons, chickens, and supplies—anything else they might need to survive a migration.

Achilles quickly cleared the path for Gwen and the girl, pushing through the madness and shoving stampeding cattle out of the way. Gwen slid her _katana_ swords from their sheaths and went to work cutting down some of the men, while both Gwen and Achilles turned in a counter-clockwise motion around the small girl.

Despite the duo's excellent fighting skills, they were heavily outnumbered. For every one that Achilles or Gwen put down, there was always six more that joined the fight. They had to move. Now. "Gwen, we have to get out of here."

In response, she nodded and shoved the little girl into his arms. "Carry her, I'll take the lead." She leaped into the horde of men and cut a messy path for Mozolla and Achilles. They quickly chased after her and into the fields of the African plain. Gwen kept cutting until she was down to only two men. They both advanced on her in both directions, Achilles was a good hundred feet behind her. There was no way he could get to her in time. He slid the little girl onto his back and lunged for Gwen, his hands reaching for her. But Gwen only turned slightly to look at him, a small smile rested on her face before she jumped into the air and spun in a triple axel. Her swords gracefully spun around her like deadly helicopter blades. She sliced through both men simultaneously and they fell at the same time into the dry, African soil.

She turned back to him with a smug smile on her face. "Oh, please, Worthy, don't tell me you were worried." Her expression turned sour. "I know you weren't."

Achilles slipped Mozolla to her feet, who simply stood there in silence. He took a step towards Gwen, wanting nothing but to touch her delicate cheek line that curved around her face. But he knew, if he even reached for her, she would have sliced off his arm. She sighed and turned around looking into the African horizon. "We have to make it back to camp; we can radio Scott and Jean there."

"Yeah, sure thing, but uh… Wordsmith, the kid…"

She turned back and broke into a warm smile, walking over to the girl. Now that they weren't being chased after by murderous tribesmen, Achilles could actually study Mozolla. She wasn't as little as he had thought—terribly short, almost five feet he would have assumed—but she was probably around thirteen or fourteen. Her skin was midnight blue with medium-sized white, glowing circles covering her entire body. She looked like the entire night sky had wrapped itself around her small form. Her eyes were normal, despite her skin's odd appearance. She had wide eyes with a sparkling hazel iris nestled within. Her features were pretty and childlike, but she looked rather bedraggled from her experience with the Hunabi, no doubt. But still… She was the most beautiful and wondrous creature Achilles had ever seen.

"Hi, there." He said softly with a smile. "I'm Achilles… We're the good guys, believe it or not."

"After what I've experienced the past few months, I could believe just about anything…" She murmured softly. Her voice was powerful and bold, which was surprising, given her tiny makeup. "Are you escorting me back home?" She asked with a bit of an accent he couldn't quite place.

Gwen smiled sadly. "Not home, Kathryn… But somewhere safe—I promise you that, love." Achilles knew they couldn't take her back home, wherever it may have been. The girl was too powerful, that kind of power radiated like the sun's rays of light. That kind of power attracted people like Erik Lehnsherr… He would have taken her for his own selfish desires in a heartbeat, without even giving the poor girl a chance to speak for herself.

"Call me Katie. Katie Hellfire." She said with a bit of a grin. Her teeth may have been pretty at one time, but now, they were seriously in need of being brushed. "I understand." She said with a calm glimmer in her eyes. She seemed to radiate an energy that was filled with something incredibly wise and gentle.

Achilles breathed through his mouth so he didn't have to smell her breath. "Right, Katie. You seem rather calm for a girl who's been trapped in a godforsaken village for months."

Katie was about to open her mouth, when her wide and hazel eyes turned a bright and alert blue. "Achilles, look out!" She pointed to something behind them, but Achilles turned too sharply a little too late. An arrow shot right into his abdomen and he felt his whole body explode in pain.

"Gahhhh…" He cried out and sunk to his knees, trying to gasp for breath. He couldn't. He knew exactly why. His blood was leaving his heart to rush to his abdomen, and in the moment, there was no blood pumping through his lungs for him to breathe. He gritted his teeth and coughed up a spout of blood. Dammit. That wasn't good. He got to his feet and felt dizzy and blackspots danced across his vision. Make that very dizzy.

He glanced over to where the arrow had come from. The Hunabi were chasing after them as well as a tall man with a bright red helmet. His crimson cape was rippling out behind him, while a bulky man with canine-like teeth walked beside him. Magneto and Sabertooth. He had to pull himself together, he realized suddenly. His whole mind was unfocused and glazed over from the sheer amount of pain in the arrow. He knew as soon as he gave up and gave into the darkness of the pain, he would leave Gwen and Katie completely unprotected. He couldn't let that happen.

"_Achilles_!" Gwen screamed and ran for him, but Achilles couldn't let her get to him. He heard the Hunabi behind them in hot pursuit. He lunged and grabbed Katie, swinging her over his shoulder, while he grabbed Gwen in the other arm and charged as fast as he could through the fields. His gut was pulsing a thick river of blood from his wound, but he hardly cared. He had to get the girls to safety before he could collapse. He had to focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. He kept repeating it to himself to stay conscious above the water of agony that was slowly drowning him.

As he charged through the fields, Gwen slipped out of his grasp and pulled out a small pistol from her belt. She aimed for Chief Eskali and it flew towards the chief, stopping a mere inch from his throat before it turned around on its axis and shot back towards the trio. Gwen watched in horror as the bullet flew into the back of Achilles' knee. He screamed out and fell to the ground, losing his grip on Katie who tumbled through the grass.

Magneto, who had a bit of a smug grin on his face, and the rest of the Hunabi tribe walked briskly and deliberately through the grasses. Achilles could feel his entire body boiling like hot water, his steel bones trying to rewire themselves in the right positions. But he knew it was no use. He turned to Gwen who was helping Katie up and running towards him. Gwen could stop this. She could stop it with one single word.

"Guinevere… You…" He managed to breathe out, grabbing her leg. "You have to do this for the kid…"

"Achilles," her eyes watered. "Please, don't make me."

"We all die." He coughed up blood across his chin. His salvia was extremely thick and hard to swallow. He had been poisoned. The arrow. He should have known. "You have to do it." He said with gritted teeth.

Magneto was mere feet from them. He raised his hands in surrender as he and the tribe came within striking range. "Children, you mustn't fight over this…" He raised his hand a bit and pulled his finger towards himself, causing Katie to be pulled across the grass. Her eyes widened and she looked desperately at Gwen and Achilles. "I'm taking what is mine."

"Please… Help me!" She fought against Magneto's power, but to no avail.

"_Gwen, now!_" Achilles screamed as he began to lose consciousness. He shoved her leg so she stood straight up. Her eyes filled with guilt and self-regret.

"I'm so sorry…" She whispered to the air and then closed her eyes. When she reopened them, the entire world had seemed to shrink to microscopic size as her eyes became the only thing that seemed to anchor gravity, reality, and normalcy in place. She opened her mouth and what came out next was the most powerful, gravitational and ear-splitting word ever muttered: "_STOP!" _She screamed at them and then the world fell silent. Everything stopped—the bugs that had been buzzing noisily in the grasses, the gazelles grazing peacefully, and the entirely of Magneto's group. It all stopped. They froze like ice.

Gwen sunk to her knees and began to sob uncontrollably. Achilles himself couldn't move as he was under her word's spell, but he knew exactly how hard it had been for her to do that. She had sworn to herself never to use her gift ever again…after _it _happened. She looked up at the sky as if searching for consternation, but found none. She rose to her feet and walked to Katie, pulled her along with her until she reached Achilles.

"Unfreeze." She said silently to the two of them. Achilles and Katie both took huge breaths, but Achilles only began to cough dryly, causing more blood to bubble across his chin.

"My God, Worthy, you can't die on me, now…" She said silently. There were tear marks down her cheeks that streaked through the brown dust that layered her skin from the Nigerian soil.

"Proud…of…you…" He managed with the poison spreading to all the parts of his body. He took her hand and squeezed it. He was preparing for the worst. His whole life he'd fought for the good of the mutant race, and that's what he had done. Gwen would get out of here alive with Katie and they would go on with their lives. Katie would learn from Xavier how to control her gift, Gwen… His heart, even in the pain it was in, palpitated like it was on life-support, at the thought of his Guinevere meeting someone else. She was his. She had always been his.

"Oh, Muscles…" She cried and pulled his head into her lap. She stroked his hair gently. At that moment, Achilles' eyelids felt extremely heavy. He just needed to sleep… That's what he needed, his exhausted mind realized. He wasn't going to die, he just needed a nice long nap…

"NO!" Katie finally managed to break out of her shocked state and grabbed Achilles' shoulder. "You can't close your eyes…" She closed her eyes and gave a heavy sigh. "I can heal you. I will heal you." She reopened her eyes and took a rock that was by her foot. She raised the rock and slit it across her palm of midnight blue skin, holding her bleeding palm over his mouth. "Drink it. Now. Or you die in less than three minutes."

If this would have been a normal day, Achilles probably would have been cautious about drinking this kid's blood. But given Chief Eskali had told of the girl's healing powers and her incredible curing gifts, he figured he really didn't have much to lose. He opened his chapped lips and the blue-tinged blood fell inside his mouth. He felt his body react instantly to the results. The arrow spat itself out of his stomach painlessly. The bullet wound in the back of his knee cracked back into place, the bullet sliding out like a bowling ball across wood. He felt bile rising in his throat and leaned over into the grass to vomit up the poison that the arrow had injected into him.

He leaned back into Gwen and closed his eyes. How could this be possible? His delirious mind wondered as he fell into a stupor between consciousness and a dream like trance. "Darling, are you alright?" He felt a gentle hand undo his uniform and then a cry that sounded in between a sob and a gasp.

"Katie, you're a miracle worker…" It was Gwen's voice. No, he thought to himself, Gwen was the miracle… He wanted to tell her, but he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes to look at her. He was just too tired…too tired to open his eyes and see her angelic face… Those midnight blue eyes that seemed like the entire galaxy was laced within them.

_I was supposed to be an angel, I think. _Gwen used to say. _But I got too close to the fire and fell from Heaven and instead of hitting Hell, I hit Earth. I think God wanted me to be a guide to people who fell from their Heavens. I'm meant to help people. _And you did… Achilles thought to himself as he fell into the comforting embrace of sleep.

* * *

Dakota had taken a cab to Central Park. He was unsure of what he wanted to do at this point, but he was content with staring at the yummy boys playing Frisbee a few feet away. He ran a hand through his hair and thought through his options. The note had given him the address to some kind of sanctuary for mutants—he supposed that's what he was. But he highly doubted it would be a sanctuary for him. He was tired of that word. _Sanctuary. _By definition, sanctuary meant that it was a protected and sacred place. Everyone had one, except him. Home was supposed to be a sanctuary, but it wasn't. It was a disheartening experience, most of the time anyway. If his father didn't rail on him about his sexuality, his grandmother would. _It's not normal, Dakota! _He remembered when she said that to him for the first time. He had been twelve.

School could have been, if not for the populous of the school being made up by 99% assholes. The only "friends" he really had were the kids from Physics Club, and they weren't even that fond of him. They probably thought he was going to start hitting on them. Dakota couldn't help but laugh at the thought of those dweebs thinking he would find any of them attractive. No, the man he would… God, what was he doing? He froze and looked at his hands. He was actually thinking about the kind of man he would want to-to…to what? Marry? Date? That wasn't possible. He pushed his head into his hands and felt his stomach twist itself into a tangle of anxious knots.

He tried listening to the birds, the sound of their chirping was slowly bleeding into the sound of his raw and untamed thoughts. Then it all stopped. He felt like the entire world had been swallowed up and the sound had disappeared with it. He slowly raised his head and saw that there was a man watching him. He was tall and had a cold-looking appearance. His hair was grey, but peppered with strands of dark brown. His eyes were a menacing and hard grey like liquid mercury. He was wearing a brown fedora with a black blazer, polished dress shoes, and a pair of leather gloves. He raised his chin as if he was balancing a ball atop his nose. "You know, my boy, it's dangerous to be out in this part of the city on your own." His voice was old, haggard, and seemingly shaped from years anger and pain. But underlying the pain was a malevolent and dark force that seemed to linger just beneath the surface. He was old, evil, and angry. _Wouldn't be the first time I've come across the equation, _Dakota thought as he watched the man in front of him approach.

And as he grew closer, Dakota realized he made things move. A small bobby-pin in the trashcan flew towards him, a paperclip beneath the bench he was sitting on slid across the sidewalk, and other bits and broken pieces of metal seemed to gather at the man's feet. He walked on as if he was hardly fazed by such odd events, and it was only then, that Dakota felt his nerves begin to pile up into tiny little balls of anxiety.

"W-Who are you?" He asked the grey-haired gentleman. The man stopped his walk towards him. And for a moment, he simply looked perplexed at Dakota's question and then — striking brilliance—a smile moved over his lips in a silent, yet slow manner. Happiness was not common for this man.

"Apologies, my boy," A slight German accent decorated his words in bright array. "I forget I can be a bit terrifying to one who has never seen true power." He smirked a bit, then, as if his words amused him. "My name is very old, Mr. Enmont, and I'm not sure it very much matters, anymore. But, to those as old as I, they simply call me Erik."

How did he know his name? Why was he being so goddamn cryptic? And then there was the: _I can be a bit terrifying to one who has never seen true power. _Yeah, that was definitely reassuring. "Well, then I guess there's no need for introductions, then." Dakota said softly, warily. His fear felt sticky and heavy at the bottom of his stomach, and with the thought of his fear, he felt a strand of sweat run down his back. This only meant one thing. Nervous poops. That seriously was going to happen—_now_? No, he would not have nervous poops. He would keep it in check. Keep it in check.

"I suppose not, but introductions aren't needed when there is a crossroads ahead. We see all the paths ahead of us, but none seem to have an endpoint that's necessarily clear." The man, who was seemingly called Erik—whom Dakota didn't know whether that was his real name or not—spoke and gestured to the multiple pathways surrounding the bench they found themselves sitting at. "We find ourselves on the path of the persecuted, Dakota…you and I. The oppressed. And our pathways seemingly only lead south into the dark oblivion of condemnation and the sort.

"But perhaps… They don't have to, Mr. Enmont. It is a crossroads, after all, and you are more than capable of stepping off the oppressed path and onto a new one. A better one—one that leads to glory, sanctuary, fame, fortune—and most importantly, _belonging_." He whispered to Dakota, his blue eyes wide with firm resolve in what he said. He was telling the truth, and the truth squeezed Dakota like a tight wrench around the heart. Everything the man said was true. He was crushed, heartbroken beyond repair, and he was forced to pretend as if everything that happened was okay. But that was the whole thing: nothing about his life was "okay."

Dakota stared into the man's blue eyes and watched for the movement behind the bright and icy lenses. "How do you know?" He asked tightly, the emotion getting to him.

Erik was taken aback by his question. His face frowning a bit, the wrinkles molded into his forehead folding with his mouth. "What do you mean?"

"How could you possibly know what it's like… What it's like to be _me_?" He snapped at him, his voice breaking off into thousands of pieces as he snapped. "How could you even begin to understand that kind of…of…" He trailed off as he was unable to finish the sentence.

"Pain?" He asked Dakota with a heavy raise of his brow. The young man sniffed and nodded, looking down at his feet with an inconsolable expression on his face.

Erik frowned again, and this time, he moved his sleeve up, rolling the delicate folds of fabric up to his elbow. Dakota looked over and saw the brand, the numbers, and before he even had a chance to react—Erik began to speak. "How could I possibly understand the pain of what it's like to be oppressed?" He held his arm up, displaying the sickest emblem of man's cruelty in Dakota's face. "Because _I am _the product of what true oppression can become when human kind decides what's allowed to stay, what's allowed to exist, and what the _right _kind of man should be. In my generation, they called it being a Jew. In your generation, they call it being queer. You want to know the true similarity that lies between us, though, Dakota?

Dakota's hands were shaking with the sudden fire he felt boiling in his blood. The sudden urge to know what it was that made "the normal" man any better than him. "What is it?" He whispered to him, his own bright blue eyes blazing with the sudden fire of greatness that seemed to be at hand.

"We are meant to be gods. Kings. We are called to be rulers of this horrid and corrupted race, Dakota, can't you see? You're a mutant who has the power to swallow the greatest cities within a tidal wave. You have the ability to crush armies, nations, and my boy, you possess the capability to restructure the face of the Earth with just the clench of your stomach. You are Neptune—_god of the sea_."

Neptune. He was a god. A king. A tyrant. He could crush the cruelty right out of man…but where to begin? "How do I…?" Dakota frowned attempting to process the change that was occurring within him. "How…?"

Erik smiled, then, and it was in such a way that reminded Dakota of the phrase on the back of the sheet the red-haired woman left for him: _He always comes for those who are angry. _He comes for those who are angry. His eyes suddenly turned to Erik, realization bright in his eyes. "Wait. No. I'm not… I'm not the man you're looking for." No, how could he be so stupid? He was angry and terrified of everything, all in the same moment. That kind of power…that kind of emotion… Why would it be felt just by him?

"But, my dear boy… You are exactly the man I'm looking for…" He opened his palm and before he could act, Dakota began to slide towards him with frightening speed. It felt as if his every atom was being split apart, pulling towards an opposite force of will and gravity. He was suddenly before Erik with a frightening closeness.

"Please… I can't…"

"No, on the contrary, my boy, _you must._"


End file.
